


You All Have Had Your Dark Adventures

by Unified Multiversal Theory (nightgigjo)



Series: Soulmate Dreamscape [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Black Hermione Granger, Child Neglect, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Gen, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Hogwarts Fourth Year, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Not Epilogue Compliant, Pre-Season/Series 01, Prompt Fic, Soulmates, Teenage Drama, Tumblr Prompt, writemesomewords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8584852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightgigjo/pseuds/Unified%20Multiversal%20Theory
Summary: Dean wakes up from a really strange dream, only to find out it might not have been his dream at all.





	1. Enter Sandman

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt (courtesy of writemesomewords): 
> 
> "They say a person dreams their soulmate’s dreams. All my soulmate seems to have is nightmares."

**January 1995**

Dean sat bolt upright, startled out of the dream he had been having.

It wasn’t like his normal type of dream, which was mostly reliving hunts and fighting supernatural creatures. This one had been _odd_. He had been in a distorted version of a library, filled with miles of shelves packed with crumbling ancient tomes, and all around him there'd been a strange scratching sound. He had looked down at his hands: smaller, darker, and younger than he had now, and the left one had held a quill. Then the dream had shifted to a classroom, but one that seemed to be in some sort of castle, or old stone house. A tiny little man, a midget really, had called in a shrill voice, “Time!” and Dean’s hands had begun to roll up the piece of parchment he’d been writing on. He had looked down in horror at the page, which instead of being covered with his handwriting, had somehow been completely blank.

Dean shook his head and rubbed his eyes, willing himself back to his own reality. He wondered briefly if there was something haunting the motel they were staying in, him and his dad and his brother, something that would be able to plant memories from long ago into the minds of sleeping travelers. When just rubbing his eyes didn’t seem to do any good in connecting him with his real life, Dean got up and went into the bathroom to splash his face. The chill of the water and the cool porcelain on his stomach as he leaned on the sink shooed away at least a few of the cobwebs in his mind. He went back to his bed where his brother Sam was still sleeping, and peered blearily at the clock.

It was 3:47.

_Dammit_ , Dean cursed to himself, before slumping in defeat. It wouldn’t do any good to go back to bed anyway, and risk waking his little brother up. Poor kid was worn these days, needed as much shut-eye as he could get. Sam wasn’t hardened to the life yet, not like Dean was; kid wasn’t even a teenager yet. Besides, their dad would be up soon enough.

Snatching up one of the lore books from the nightstand, Dean pulled on his jeans and padded over to the little table that divided the room from its attached kitchenette, pulling out the chair as silently as possible. Cautiously, without disturbing the salt lines on the sill, he twitched open the curtains a tiny crack, letting in just a bit more of the orange light from the parking lot. Leaning forward into the shaft of dim light, he cracked open the battered little book, squinting through the gloom at the carefully printed Latin on the page.

At the touch of a hand on his shoulder, Dean’s hand whipped to the silver knife in his back pocket. “It’s me, Dean,” his father said, with a slight nod of approval. Dean visibly relaxed, moving his hand back up to the tabletop as his father pulled up the other caneback chair. His face wasn’t as drawn and tense as usual; instead, he looked only a bit tired. It was a good mood day, it looked like. John glanced quickly down at the book, still laying open on the table, and gave Dean a more critical look. “I thought you had that memorized already.”

Dean winced a bit, but held his father’s gaze. “Just reinforcing it,” he demurred, shutting the book and sliding it across the table. “Woke up, needed something to do. Figured it was quieter than cleaning the weapons,” he shrugged.

John seemed to accept this, but leaned forward in his chair. “What woke you up?” he inquired, giving his son a piercing look.

Dean briefly considered blowing it off, but something told him his dad wouldn’t let this one go. “Weird dream,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He paused for a moment to see if that would be enough, but his dad didn’t make any move to change the topic.

Automatically, Dean sat up just a little bit straighter. “Do you know of any kind of ghost that can make people dream their old memories?” he asked, brows furrowed. “Like, the ghost’s memories?”

John frowned harder, but shook his head. “Nothing in the lore about anything like that. Why?”

Dean gusted a sigh, slumping back in his chair. “That dream I had last night, Dad. It seemed like some kind of weird school dream, but like, in an old castle or something? Taking a test on parchment, for crying out loud. It has to be something from the past, right?”

His father’s face, still puzzled, had unexpectedly softened a bit. “Tell me,” he ventured, “did you see yourself in this dream? Like, from the outside?”

It was Dean’s turn to frown in confusion. “No,” he replied at once, “I just saw things from my own perspective.”

John nodded absently, looking away over Dean’s shoulder now. “Did you see...any part of yourself, then?”

“My hands,” Dean said, “but not my hands, if you know what I mean. They looked different, but it was still me.” He stopped, looking at his own hands, remembering the dream. “Oh,” he said, turning his palms face up, then face down again. “That’s weird. In the dream,” he muttered, half to himself, “I was left-handed, like Sammy.”

Dean glanced up at his father, just in time to see a sly half-grin flicker across the man’s face, before he sobered again. “We’ll double the precautions, son,” John replied, “just in case. But I’m thinking your dream might mean something else.”

“Like what?” Dean demanded.

John’s eyes were frank as he stared across the table at his elder son. “Like your soulmate has reached puberty.”

Dean scoffed before his dad’s words sank in. “My what now?” he retorted, dumbfounded.

His dad’s eyes crinkled in a rare, misty smile. “Your soulmate. The person you’re supposed to be with,” he answered, a wave of sadness capsizing the smile, “forever.”

“Wait,” Dean charged, standing up from his chair in alarm. “I thought that was just stupid stuff on TV. You mean to tell me I have a soulmate, and you never bothered to tell me?”

John’s hand shot out, grabbing Dean’s wrist and pulling him slowly back into his seat. “I didn’t know you’d have one, for sure. I probably should have told you about this a long time ago,” he admitted, “but you never seemed old enough to know.” John shifted in his seat, restless, like he was looking to reach for something that wasn’t there. “When both people are of age,” he continued, “soulmates start to dream each others’ dreams. When I was sixteen, I started having the strangest dreams...turns out, they were your mother’s.”

For a few moments, Dean just stared. He’d never heard his father talk about his mom this much in any one sitting -- at least while he was sober. “How,” he stammered, after the initial shock had mostly worn off, “how long was it before you knew?”

“Quite a few years,” he said with a rueful smile. “Your mom was none too keen on sharing her dreams, not with just anyone. It took a while for me to win her over.” John shot Dean a grin that might have been charming to some chick somewhere, if only it wasn’t plastered all over his dad’s face.

Dean just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, I get it,” he snarked. “But seriously, Dad. How do I know if this is my soulmate, or just some freaky dream of my own?”

“You don’t,” John snapped, “not until you find them.” His good mood was wearing off, and fast. He was starting to sound exasperated. “Treat it like any other hunt. Collect data until you can get an idea of the target. Find out what you’re looking for, then start looking.”

A flippant answer flashed through Dean’s mind, and was on the tip of his tongue before he thought better of it. He was lucky to have gotten this much sensitive information out of his dad, period. Instead, he gave a curt nod. “Yessir,” he replied automatically. “Watch my dreams, make note of any identifying marks, and keep a lookout.”

John’s eyes were hard-edged but proud. “That’s my boy,” he said, clapping Dean once again on the shoulder. The serious-Dad-face was on again, at full intensity. “You find this girl, son,” he said. “Make me proud.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt at writing a soulmate AU. I completely intended to write this as a one-shot, BUT TO NO AVAIL. This is pretty sincerely destined to be another longform fic. DAMMIT. I did not need another WIP right now. :(:(:(
> 
> The title comes from a poem entitled "Nightmare" by Conrad Potter Aiken. 
> 
> Yes, this is a Hermione/Dean pairing. YES, I completely failed to have Hermione in this first chapter. YES I WILL DO IT RIGHT SOON I PROMISE.
> 
> ANYWAY. I'm always interested in your comments, questions, thoughts, and predictions. It's what I live for!


	2. Self Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 1995: In the relative calm before the storm of the Second Task, Hermione falls into strange, unsettling dreams of her own.

**January 1995**

It had only been a few weeks since the Yule Ball, but the term was already in full swing again. With the Second Task approaching, however, most of the students at Hogwarts were more concerned with the champions’ progress than actually learning anything.  

So when Hermione went to the library after dinner to work on her History of Magic essay (because, really, who could concentrate in the Gryffindor Common Room?), she found herself, unsurprisingly, alone. She wrote until Madam Pince sent her scurrying off to Gryffindor Tower, nearly completing the 30 inches Professor Binns had assigned that morning. Between all the stress of helping Harry research for the Triwizard Tournament and that wretched Skeeter woman’s scathing articles, Hermione had thrown herself into her schoolwork, at least to keep her mind off things for a while. The strategy was paying off: she’d had a completely boring school dream last night, something about not having finished writing an exam when time was called. After the ridiculous places her mind had gone in the previous few months, that familiar childhood terror had been nearly comforting.

As she made her way up the ever-shifting staircases, Hermione’s thoughts ranged wide. She’d felt a change in herself, nothing overwhelming or earth-shattering, but she’d felt, well, more fully  _ herself _ since the night of the Yule Ball. It was a gradual settling-in, like the little glittery snowflakes of a snow globe finally coming to rest at the bottom. It made her feel concentrated, confident. Not a rush of bravado or that feeling of invincibility, but a quiet certainty. 

It was an odd sensation, but nonetheless welcome. 

She climbed through the portrait hole, only to find a largely deserted common room. A couple of fifth-years were studying for OWLs, while Seamus and Dean were playing exploding snap at a table by the fire. Harry and Ron were nowhere to be seen. With nothing to distract her, Hermione considered, she may as well to go straight to bed. 

After taking the quickest of showers, she got into her pyjamas and sat cross-legged on her four-poster, drawing the curtains around her. Pulling the little beaded bag her mother had given her before she’d left for Hogwarts in first year, removing the three precious items she kept in it: a small tub of coconut oil, a half-pint jar of shea-butter creme (her mother’s own recipe), and a square silk scarf.

Placing  _ Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four _ open on her lap, she began unwinding and finger-combing her hair as she read, working in first a bit of the coconut oil, then the shea-butter creme. When that was done, she studied for a while longer, carefully twining her long, kinky hair into the larger twists she preferred to wear in the winter. When she was done, a good number of chapters later, her twisted hair was gathered up and wrapped for the night in the scarf. Head full of Banishing Charms (and a full review of Summoning Charms, of course), Hermione drifted easily off to sleep as soon as she laid on the pillow. 

The dreams that followed were like nothing that had ever before tormented her most fretful, restless sleep. She was in a dark wood, completely foreign to her, as she trod carefully in the deeper shadows of tall, spindly trees. The forest floor was covered with long, thin needles of some type of evergreen which muted every footstep. She looked down at her hands, which were pale in the moonlight, long-boned and knobbly-jointed, thin but calloused and strong. In her right hand, she wielded a stout silver knife with a keen edge that glinted menacingly. 

Off to her left she heard the snap of a twig and froze, not daring to breathe. She flicked her eyes in the direction of the sound, straining to see what had made it. The darkness seemed to gather in a small copse of trees a quarter-turn from where she stood, and as she stared, she caught a glimpse of something that froze her blood. 

At first she thought it was some sort of wild dog, as all she could see was a set of long, dripping fangs. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, a face came into focus: if it hadn’t contained a set of wickedly sharp teeth, the face would have been completely human. It belonged to a young boy, perhaps her own age, but no older, but the eyes that stared back at here were completely inhuman, irises glowing a sickly yellow-green, with long slit pupils like a cat’s. The cloud cover overhead parted, allowing the light of the moon to fall full on the boy-creature’s face, as well as illuminating the silver blade in her hand. 

The creature snarled at the weapon thus revealed, and for one tense moment she couldn’t tell if it was going to attack or flee. Some hint on her face must have decided it, because in a second her world slowed, as the thing sped out of the clearing towards her. Terrified, she nonetheless held her stance,  brandishing the knife with a practiced confidence. As it lunged for her, she made an upwards jab at the creature’s bare chest, and just before they both hit the ground, Hermione woke up with a jolt.

She was drenched in sweat and freezing, heart racing in her chest as though she had really just been fighting for her life. The sound of her own pulse thundered in her ears, and her eyes darted around the darkness, searching for a threat. The dormitory was completely still, save for the one or two gentle snores issuing from the other four-poster beds in the room. Hermione peeked out of her curtains, but saw nothing to disturb the rest of any of her dorm-mates. The light of the moon was streaming in through one of the high-set windows, and she could just see from where she was that it was still three or four days from full. She sat back on her bed, breathing hard, hugging her knees until the moon had passed out of view of the window. 

Casting a quick  _ Tempus _ , Hermione scowled. There wasn’t long before she would have to be awake for the day, what with their Charms exam first thing after breakfast.  Sighing heavily, she rose from her bed and dressed quickly in the dark, carefully unbinding her hair from its silken wrap. After a wave of her wand and a muttered  _ Scourgefy _ , Hermione folded the now clean and pressed scarf into a small triangle, and tucked it back into the bag on her bedside.

Gathering up her books, she went quietly down into the Common Room, to wait for Harry and Ron to wake up and go to breakfast with her. Though she hadn’t forgotten it by the time they finally appeared, stretching and yawning widely, Hermione made no mention of her dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: A lot of research went into this chapter, vis-a-vis how Hermione would take care of her hair. (I am white, with 1a/1b type hair, and have no experience caring for natural black hair.) If I get something wrong, please let me know, and I will fix it! I read for most of the afternoon on various websites, on regular care as well as protective measures to be taken in winter, focusing on 4b and 4c hair types, but nothing can compare to actual lifelong experience with your own hair!
> 
> To make things abundantly clear for those who didn't get it (i.e. possibly clueless white folks like myself), Hermione is black. I've been fully converted to Black!Hermione headcanon by the gracious sharing of many works of fan art, and quite a lot of black fans writing about how a bushy-haired girl is quite naturally a black girl. My thanks and gratitude go to all of those fans.


	3. Pull Me Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's soulmate's dreams are getting weirder, Sam knows a thing or two, and priorities conflict.

**February 1995**

In the last few weeks, Dean hadn’t had too many of those strange maybe-not-his-own dreams, but they had happened. He started collecting them, as his dad taught him, in a spiral-bound memo book he’d picked up from a dollar store. At this point, only a couple of its narrow-lined pages were filled with Dean’s cramped handwriting, each instance meticulously dated and described. Usually Dean hated research, but this was different: it was like a case, trying to figure out the details of the object of the hunt, except this time his quarry didn’t pose any danger to people.

As far as he could tell, she (his dad assumed ‘she’, and although Dean was a bit more open-minded than that, he wasn’t about to correct John on that point until he was _sure_ ) was a pretty normal kid, about the same age as he was, even if she did go to some weird antiquated school in a renovated castle. She’d even had one of those moving staircase dreams, the kind Dean had had about his last high school, where you’re kind of stuck in that scene from _Labyrinth_. That dream had been so familiar, he’d almost laughed aloud when he woke up from it, although half of that had been from the panic at not getting to class on time.

But last night, the dream had terrified him.

He came to it gradually, almost like waking up into the dream, and at first everything was dark, green and hazy. There was a pressure all around him but he felt strangely weightless, and tall plants waved gently in front of his face. All sound was muted too, and slowly it dawned on him why: he was underwater, in some sort of lake, and all the plants were covered in a slimy green algae.

He didn’t feel a need to breathe yet, but still tried to swim up to the surface, finding that he could not move. Every struggle seemed to bind him more strongly, until panic began to swell in him, the urge to _get out get out just get out_. Nothing he seemed to do had any effect on his predicament. Eventually when his lungs didn’t burst from lack of oxygen, he calmed down a little bit, and began to take note of his surroundings.

There were other people there with him: a girl his own age who looked Chinese, or maybe Korean; a tall, gangly boy with a mop of red hair; and a much smaller girl, petite and blond, eyes gently shut like a porcelain doll. Two of them were dressed in long, dark clothes like graduation robes: the older girl and the boy, and the younger girl was in a similar garment, but in a pale blue. He looked down at himself, and saw that he was wearing the same nearly-shapeless black outfit as the other two. As he stared down, he realized that there was something on the edge of his vision, and he turned his head to one side to get a look at it. Floating all around him was a halo of fluffy black hair.

Before he could fully comprehend that he’d found another important clue about his (perhaps maybe) soulmate, Dean spotted a cluster of figures appearing out of the dark water in front of him. The largest of the four came speeding towards him, and if he could have made a sound, Dean would have shouted his head off: coming right for him was a shark bigger than he was.

Suddenly the water between him and the shark was swarming with dozens of strange, gray-green creatures. Their heads and upper bodies were kind of human-shaped, but past the waist they were slim and tapered like eels. Dean barely had time to register them before the shark sped through them, bowling right through their ranks, before reaching out a hand (what the hell??) and grabbing Dean around his wrist. At the touch Dean could again move, and the shark-person shot up through the gradually lightening water, dragging Dean with him all the way.

Dean’s audible gasp as he woke felt as desperate as if he’d been holding his breath for the entirety of the dream. He sat up, staring blindly ahead of him while panic overtook him, and it was a long time before he realized that someone was shaking him.

“Dean, wake up,” his brother’s increasingly agitated voice filtered through to his consciousness. “Dean. Dean!”

Blinking rapidly, Dean came to himself to find Sammy staring him in the face, hands gripping both of his shoulders with a strength he wouldn’t have expected from his nearly 12-year-old brother. Sam’s hazel-green eyes were wide with fear, but the moment Dean focused on him, he looked at least somewhat reassured.

“Yeah, uh, sorry,” Dean muttered, still a bit dazed from the rude (but timely) awakening.

“What the hell, Dean!” Sam demanded as he sat back on his haunches, eyeing his brother with a mixture of distress and annoyance. “What the hell was that?”

At first Dean didn’t answer, but swung his legs off the bed, looking around the motel room. “Where’s Dad?” he blurted out, startled by both Sammy’s cursing and the lack of any reproach of it.

“Not back yet,” Sam replied, clearly less worried about his father’s continued absence than his brother’s strange behavior. “Now are you gonna tell me what happened or not?”

Dean hesitated a second, still having to will himself back into the here-and-now. “It was nothing, Sammy,” he replied eventually, “just a weird freaking dream.”

“Just a dream, Dean?” Sam retorted. “You sounded like you were suffocating, like you couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to have to call 911.”

“Shit, really?” Dean scrubbed his hands over his face and ran them through his hair. “Dude, I’m sorry, it was crazy vivid, but it really was just a dream.”

“What, you mean like a soulmate dream?” Sammy inquired.

It was Dean’s turn to stare. “Dude, you’re like eleven. What do you know about soulmate dreams?”

“Plenty,” Sam scoffed. “Dad told me a few weeks ago you might be having weird dreams, and that it might mean you were gonna meet your soulmate. While you two were off on that last hunt, I spent all the time I could finding out about them at the library after school. Here,” he said, scrambling across the bed to fish something out of his backpack that he’d dumped on the floor, and shoved a stack of computer print-outs into Dean’s unresisting hands.

Somewhat in awe of the fact his brother had done research for him, Dean unfolded the accordion of dot-matrix printouts, reading over them in fascination. “Sammy, I…” he trailed off, unsure of how to go about this, “I mean, thanks, Sammy. This ought to help a lot.”

Sam simply shrugged. “It’s nothing,” he demurred, because for him, it had been. He fiddled with his shirt tail for a few seconds before adding, hesitantly, “Can I ask what it was about? The dream, I mean. If it’s not too personal,” he finished, without looking his brother in the eye.

“What?” Dean said, startled out of this thoughts, and drawing his attention away from the printouts in his hand.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Sam hurriedly backtracked.

“Hey, what? No, dude, it’s totally fine,” Dean quickly countered, before he realized what exactly his brother had meant by _personal_ , and then blushed beet red. “Christ, no,” he repeated, looking somewhat abashed. “It was just a freaking weird dream, like I was stuck underwater but I wasn’t drowning.” He shook off the feeling of suffocation which came flooding back, as soon as he began talking about it.

Sam frowned, but didn’t press further. “Okay, I guess,” he replied at length, giving Dean the once-over again for good measure. “Just, well, hell. Your soulmate’s dreams suck.”

Dean chuckled at that, nodding his head in vague recollection of the other dreams he’d had lately. “This is the only really bad one,” he admitted. “Mostly they’re just school stress dreams. Seems I’ve got a soulmate who worries about school as much as you do,” he teased.

Sam pulled a face. “Comparing me to your soulmate? Dude, that’s just gross!”

At his brother’s disgusted face, Dean just laughed. It was good to know he hadn’t lost his touch.

* * *

For the next few weeks, Dean didn’t have any not-his dreams stranger than the moving-stairs one (because seriously, who _didn’t_ get that dream?), to the point he was getting downright comfortable with his maybe-soulmate’s dream life. From what he could tell, she (he was starting to assume ‘she’ himself) seemed to be pretty smart, if entirely too worried about school, and feeling somewhat conflicted about a couple of boys in her life: one big, dark-haired guy with a strong accent who seemed to have broken his nose more than once (a jock, maybe?) and the tall red-headed dude from the underwater dream, who seemed to be eating all the time (and dude, who could blame him?) when he wasn’t palling around with the Indian kid with glasses and the cool scar that looked like a lightning bolt on his forehead.

It was weird, really, because he’d expected to feel jealous of these guys who were around ‘his’ girl...except she wasn’t _his_. It was more like watching a movie about a girl going through her life, which, you know, was a little too chick-flick for his taste, but it was different when you were experiencing it. He didn’t exactly feel her feelings or anything, but he kind of got where she was coming from on a lot of it. This red-haired dude was kind of rude usually, but she and him and the Indian kid were apparently best friends, and got each other through a lot of crap. Dean was glad she had friends like that; not everyone did.

He had figured out that, wherever they all were, these kids were going to some boarding school where just about everyone (except Dark-Haired Jock) had British accents. It was kind of cool, when he thought about it, even though that pretty much guaran-freaking-teed that they were on some other continent than he was. But since when had his life been easy?

Dean had read a bit about that in Sam’s print-outs. It seemed like, when soulmates were in different countries or whatever, they somehow ended up in the same place at some point in their lives, to meet and find out if they could make it work. He figured it’d work out that way for him and the mystery girl, too. Sam seemed to worry more about that than he did, but hey. People came to America all the time, right? Land of the free and all that? Maybe she would come over, too.

It was all good until the second week of March, when her stressful dreams started to take a nasty turn. At first there were flocks of birds following her around, trying to drop _mail_  on her head, of all things. Then some of the envelopes would turn bright red and start shouting at her, calling her names he was pretty sure were the equivalent of ‘whore’. These dreams continued every night for a solid week, growing ever more intense each night, beginning almost as soon as he went to sleep. Dean was grouchier and grouchier every morning when he woke up, until his dad was so hard on his case he finally broke, spilling everything about the dreams, and the British girl he was apparently destined for.

John sat and listened, slightly bemused at first, but eventually turning a stern glare on him. “I know how hard this can be, son,” he said, sounding only the tiniest bit sympathetic, “but you have to remember that you’re on the hunt now. You can’t afford to lose your focus. You’ll be better off staying up to avoid the nightmares, and catching a few winks in the car during the day.”

Dean was in no mood to be told to take naps like some kind of toddler, but he choked down his resentment long enough to give his dad a curt nod. “Okay,” John said, taking his son’s assent as a given. “Now I know this is important to you, but you’ll thank me later when you can think straight again. We’ve nearly caught up to that yellow-eyed bastard, and when we do, you’ll have all the time in the world to look for your soulmate.”

At this pronouncement Dean winced internally, but again said nothing. It was The Job. The family business. Saving people, hunting things, would always be his top priority. How could anyone be so selfish that they put their personal lives before literally saving the world?


	4. I've Got Dreams to Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's dreams return once the events of the school year subside, and she finally finds out where they're coming from.

**July 1995**

It had been a week since the disastrous end of their fourth year at Hogwarts, and Hermione was honestly just glad to have gotten away home. She had taken quite a lot of solace in her normal routines: breakfast with her parents before they went to work, studying for her GSCEs (she couldn’t rule out attending university, after all) before meeting her mother for lunch, taking a walk to do some of the shopping before her parents came home.

This afternoon, Hermione had sat down for a second study session, and somehow nodded off before she’d finished reading the first paragraph. She woke up, startled, from another strange dream, of a kind she hadn’t had since January. 

She’d been outside in a parking lot, and had heard a noise like a rush of wind. She had spun around, seeing to her horror that a door behind her had been left open. She rushed forward into a shabby-looking hotel room, only to see a hooded figure bending over the body of a young boy. She was frozen to the spot, watching helplessly as a white vapor coiled up from the boy’s mouth and nose and up into the hood of the stooping figure. Suddenly she felt a weight in her hands, a firearm with a long barrel (a shotgun?), and shaking where she stood, she took unsteady aim. She aimed the weapon and fired but the shot went wide, striking one of the walls near the ceiling. It was too close to him, she couldn’t risk hurting Sammy. 

_ The boy’s name was Sammy. Her little brother. _

The creature was bent down low over him now, and the light coming out of Sammy’s mouth was beginning to flicker and fade. She had to shoot. She had to shoot this creature now, or Sammy was going to die. She found a focus she didn’t know she had, and leveled the weapon at the creature’s head. 

Before she could pull the trigger, a great bear of a man rushed in the room. He shouted at her, his voice full of reproach as she was shoved aside, a split second before another shot sounded in the dead air of the hotel room, and the creature disappeared in a blur of speed. 

She awoke with an ache in her chest as guilt overtook her: guilt for failing to protect her brother.  _ He could have been hurt, he could have died, and it was all her fault. Her fault for leaving, for leaving the door open. She let the thing in. Let it get Sam, the only person she had in the world.  _

The dissonant thoughts echoed through her mind, and she could not shake them. Viciously she forced into her mind the memories of her family, of her parents, of how she didn’t have any siblings, but had found brothers in Harry and Ron. Their years at Hogwarts, the scrapes they’d been through: defeating the cave troll, solving the clues to for Harry to find the Philosopher’s Stone, figuring out what guarded the Chamber of Secrets, rescuing Sirius and Buckbeak both from certain death. Surviving the Quidditch World Cup and the revelation of the Dark Lord to the world.  _ That _ was her life.  _ That _ was her reality. 

Her breathing labored, she stood up and went into the kitchen, filling the electric kettle with shaking hands. She knew what her mother would say:  _ Breathe, Hermione. Slow down. In, out. Sip the tea. Breathe again. In, out. In, out. Good. _

By the time the kettle whistled, Hermione was able to pour the water into her mug without spilling it. By the time her parents returned home, she was stretched out comfortably on the sofa, reading the chemistry textbook propped on her lap. She didn’t want to trouble them with such a silly thing as a dream.

\-----

By the end of July, Hermione’s dreams were getting more constant. It was a vicious cycle: she’d fall asleep studying in the afternoon and have a horrible dream, end up staying up too late studying to avoid sleeping, end up falling asleep at 3 a.m., wake up to another horrible dream, try not to fall asleep studying, fail, repeat. Day after day, night after night, these people haunted her sleep: the boy Sam (sometimes a child of about 8, but mostly about 12) and his (their) father. She (her soulmate?) was either a teenager fighting the most terrifying creatures, or she was a tween getting into loads of trouble with her (his?) father. The man treated her as though he was her a recruitment officer instead of a parent. More often than not, his was the presence in the dream that sent her flying towards consciousness. She began wishing she could cast a Silencing Charm around her bed, to make sure she didn’t disturb anyone else whenever she woke.

As always she said nothing to her parents, but played off her problems as merely studying too late, which she promised to try and do better, until they would shook their heads at their studious little girl, although her mother’s brow was always creased with worry.

When it finally came time for Hermione to visit her friends, her parents accepted the invitation with a touch of urgency, encouraging her to leave her Muggle textbooks at home, reminding her she’d have her Hogwarts materials soon enough. They’d driven to the Leaky Cauldron to meet Molly, Ron and Ginny, and after a pleasant if lively meal, returned to their London flat, while Hermione and the Weasleys Floo’d back to the Burrow.

Fred and George were there to meet them when they stepped out of the fireplace, and had immediately grabbed both Ron and Ginny for a game of Quidditch, and recruited Hermione for referee. As she sat in the relative shade of the garden, she felt relaxed for the first time in what seemed like ages: watching the four of them zoom around on their broomsticks and sipping lemonade in the afternoon heat as bees buzzed lazily through blossoming angelica, sage, and dittany. 

After drowsing for a while in the shade, Hermione felt very much refreshed. She begged off refereeing (she wasn’t doing anything anyway) in favor of going back in the house. She’d planned to study again, until she remembered that she hadn’t any textbooks to study. She decided then she’d go and see if Mrs. Weasley needed any help with anything. 

Hermione found her in the kitchen, busy with preparations for tonight’s supper. Molly accepted the help gladly, putting Hermione to work peeling potatoes (the Muggle way), while she managed the rest with a wave of her wand. “It’s kind of you to come and keep me company,” she beamed, as a tray of bread rolls were sent off to a shelf above the oven to rise. Hermione just smiled politely, and went on with her peeling. The simple domesticity of things was soothing, and she hesitated to do anything that might break the proverbial spell. 

Molly cocked her head for a moment, taking in the sight of the girl - young woman, really - willingly and effortlessly doing a chore that every one of her natural children would do everything in their power to avoid. “Well, my dear,” she said, “I’m glad to know at least one of you children will know how to cook when you grow up. I’m afraid every last Weasley will either starve or live on takeaway, unless they are fortunate enough to find soulmates who know more than they do about cooking.” 

Perhaps Hermione hadn’t been paying proper attention, but her wandering mind had snapped back at the word ‘soulmate’. “I’m sorry,” she said, brow furrowed very much like her mother’s, “find soulmates? But those aren’t real,” she began, and then backtracked, “are they?”

Mrs. Weasley looked at her curiously and pulled up a chair to sit beside her. “Of course, they’re real,” she said, with genuine concern plain on her otherwise cheerful face. “Don’t Muggles have soulmates, too?” 

Hermione frowned, unsure how to answer. “Well,” she answered haltingly, “there are lots of books and movies where people find their One True Love. It’s all very pat: one night you dream about The One, and then they meet, totally by chance, fall in love, etc.” Her brows creased again, this time considering what she’d just said. “I’d always thought it had to be a load of rubbish.”

Mrs. Weasley sighed in understanding. “Oh, we have that rubbish, too. Romantic hogwash, the lot of it. Nothing about the real work, or even the real dreams.” She laid a gentle hand on Hermione’s shoulder, and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “Someday, more likely than not, you’ll start dreaming, just like Arthur and I did. Only it’s not some misted over vision of your true love’s face, I can tell you.” The woman gave a quick scoffing laugh that was almost like a snort. “You start by dreaming their dreams, whatever strange things are in their heads, and after a while you are generally able to piece together who they are.”

Despite the gentleness of her words, Hermione stiffened at Mrs. Weasley’s pronouncement. The older woman noticed immediately, and sat back with a dawning realization. “You’ve had a dream you can’t explain, haven’t you?” 

Hermione was so stunned, she could only nod. 

“My goodness, child,” Molly Weasley clucked, “and you not even believing such things were real? No wonder you’re upset.” She took both of Hermione’s hands, which had long since stopped peeling potatoes, in her own, and held them comfortingly. “If you want, I’ll make you a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it. If you don’t, well, I’ll make you a cup of tea anyway, and we can just sit here quiet until you feel better.”

Hermione, mind reeling, just nodded again as Mrs. Weasley steered her over to the near end of the long dining table, getting her settled with a plate of biscuits as the teakettle filled itself before setting itself to boil on the hob. With a few more deft wand movements, sugar and milk appeared on the table, and the doors to the rest of the house shut with a snap of a lock. “I’ll cast a privacy charm, if you want to talk,” she offered, and Hermione nodded for a third time. She was terrifically frightened now, but feared that if she didn’t talk about this with someone, it would be the end of getting proper sleep. 

For a long time, she couldn’t speak. Staring into her teacup didn’t seem to be giving her the boost of courage she needed to break the silence. Her thoughts were still whirling in her head, refusing to settle long enough for her to choose where to begin, when Molly broke it for her.

“Sip the tea, love. Breathe in, breathe out.”

Automatically she raised the dark builder’s brew to her lips, inhaling the strong, sweet aroma before taking an obedient sip. Her racing mind slowed a bit, and she took a second sip, which she rolled around her tongue, relishing the contrasting flavors of bitter and milky and sweet. “It’s the dreams,” she said at least, when her voice had found itself. “They’re nightmares... they’re all nightmares.” She took a steadying breath, willing herself not to even begin to tear up. If she started crying, she wouldn’t be able to say it.

Molly’s face was a grim mask, worry and concern warring with sympathy and understanding. She let the girl take her time; stepping in now would only stop the torrent that so obviously needed unleashing.

“And they’re so strange,” Hermione wailed at last, “I’m always fighting, hunting strange things that are like but unlike  _ real _ magical beings and creatures. People with werewolf fangs, Dementors with human bodies, ghosts that attack people and possess them! Always fighting, always killing, or nearly being killed! And Sammy, he’s so vulnerable, I can’t leave him alone or he’ll get hurt…”

“Wait,” said Mrs. Weasley impulsively, belatedly hoping this wouldn’t stop Hermione talking, “you said a name. Whose is it?”

“My brother’s,” the girl replied, mercifully still on track, “he’s about four years younger than me, and I left him alone once and the Dementor-thing nearly got him and Dad looked like he wanted to kill me, he was so mad.” 

The poor thing looked terrified, but Molly was actually a bit encouraged. She had so much detail, so soon, but then Hermione always had been both bright and observant. “Okay,” Molly interjected again, hoping to Merlin that her luck would hold, “what does your brother look like?” 

“Getting tall, and more tanned now than when he was younger. Used to be so pale white he almost looked sick. Hair’s almost blond, too, getting long and shaggy,” Hermione replied, staring hard into the memory of her dreams.

The Weasley matriarch carefully folded her hands in her lap, holding herself as still as possible. She wasn’t sure if she dared to interrupt the flow of Hermione’s words a third time. There was taking a risk, and  _ then _ there was being foolhardy. While she didn’t mistake herself for any kind of sage, Molly took a certain amount of pride in being able to read people well, especially those she considered family. This odd, brilliant young woman had quickly become one of them, and Molly knew that any long, silent spell from her wasn’t some momentary distraction, but a deep examination. Her mind didn’t wander, it  _ delved _ . Unlike some of her children, Hermione didn’t need direction, but time. When the young girl across from her let out a small gasp, Molly knew her patience was about to be well paid.

The light in those warm, brown eyes had returned, and Hermione looked up at her with a mixture of dismay and delight. “They’re...I just realized, they sound American. And I know names.  _ Two _ of them!” She worried her bottom lip, but already she was fairly vibrating with excitement. “That’s good, right?”

Molly beamed, proud as ever, but with a touch of relief that the girl had come back to herself so quickly. “It is very good, my dear,” she affirmed. “Two names is an excellent place to start.”

“Start?” Hermione, bless her, stopped dead in her tracks, and blinked three times in rapid succession. 

The older woman stifled a giggle. “To find your soulmate, of course.” She didn’t think the girl’s cheeks could glow much more, but glow they did, a deep red like mahogany.

“Find, um, right,” Hermione stood abruptly, as her thoughts flew in all directions, fingers rapidly twiddling as she began pacing the small kitchen, “yes, I could… yes, um, yes.” She was halfway out the door before she remembered Molly and came rushing back in, flying into her arms, wrapping her in a tight hug. “Thank you,” Hermione mumbled into her shoulder. 

Just as quickly she sped away again, before Molly realized something. “Wait,” she called after the young woman’s retreating back, “what’s the second name?”

“Dean,” Hermione half-shouted over her shoulder as she rushed up the stairs, “his name is Dean!”


	5. Impossible Dreamer

From the moment Hermione ran upstairs, she had thrown herself headlong into reading everything she could get her hands on about soulmates. She found a couple of novels, including one from the _Fickle Fate_ series Lavender Brown had kept tucked away under her pillow in Third Year. Hermione considered that one a while before picking that one up. You had to start somewhere, she supposed.

She was still rummaging through the shared bookshelves in the hall when Ginny came up the stairs behind her. The youngest Weasley was thoroughly windblown, and the glow in her cheeks was enough to make her freckles stand out less than they usually did. “Hey, Hermione,” she said as she bounded up, then stopped when she saw the bundle of books in the other girl’s hands. “Wait, are those,” she began to ask, pausing as realization dawned. “Merlin, Hermione! Are you...are you _dreaming_?” she demanded, though her voice was hushed. At Hermione’s timid nod, Ginny gave an excited squeak, hugging her friend tightly.

Within seconds, though, she was holding Hermione at arm’s length, making a careful study of her face. “You can’t tell me you didn’t know about soulmates already?” Ginny pursed her lips and frowned, in a gesture eerily reminiscent of her mother. “Not you, Hermione! I mean, you know about everything! And if you don’t, you throw yourself into researching whatever it is you…” As her words trailed off, Ginny started nodding, mind racing along that line of thought, and she peered down at the titles Hermione had in her grasp, humming a bit under her breath. “Well, it looks like you have a good start there,” she commented. “ I mean, those _Fickle Fate_ books are a bit on the, um, racy side, but they’re pretty consistent with what Mum and Dad taught us when we were kids.”  
  
Then Ginny shot her a winning grin, and before she could say a word, Hermione found herself being whisked off to Ginny’s room, with door shut and locked behind them. “Now,” the red-headed girl said, plopping down on her bed and giving Hermione her undivided attention, “tell me _everything_!”

By the time Hermione had told her enthusiastic friend about her dreams and the people in them, they had both laughed and wept and laughed again. Ginny had listened intently to her recitations, gasping audibly at the more surprising turns. In spite of the terrors of the dreams, she clearly considered it to be great good fortune on Hermione’s part, to have learned so much about her soulmate so quickly.  When she was done, Ginny asked so many questions about them -- about what the people in her dreams were like, how they spoke and acted, and how Hermione felt about them -- that they were beginning to seem more like real people.

When they got to the problem of the apparent distance between them, though, Ginny had frowned. “I’ve never heard of anyone having a soulmate who was so far away before,” she said pensively, while Hermione fidgeted with a corner of the coverlet. “I mean, sometimes you hear about people dreaming in another language, but mostly that just means they should start looking in London.”

Hermione sighed heavily, and snuggled under the blanket she’d been worrying. Ginny grabbed the afghan from the end of the bed and wrapped it around them both. They sat there together for a minute or two, until Hermione felt like speaking again. “The places I’ve seen, though,” she began, hesitantly at first, “seem to be very different than any place I’ve ever been in Britain, or even on the Continent. There are no landmarks to tell me in any of them, just forests, shabby rooms, and car parks: nothing to tell me anything about where they are.” Hermione’s heart sank like a stone and settled in the pit of her stomach.

Genevra Weasley was not so easily deterred. “Well then,” she said briskly, “you’ll just have to look for clues, like in ‘The Willow Maiden’.”

“The what?” Hermione said, completely lost.

“You know, the fairy tale?” Ginny replied in disbelief.

“I...no,” Hermione stammered, “ I don’t know that one.”

“You don’t..no well, you wouldn’t, I guess.”  Ginny threw off her half of the afghan before flopping on her stomach, letting her head hang over the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked.

“I think,” came Ginny’s voice, slightly muffled by the fall of her hair. “I think it’s under….ah ha!” she exclaimed, triumphant. Hauling herself upright, she brandished a small, tattered book that had quite a layer of dust over half the cover. She handed it over to Hermione, who brushed the title clean.

“ _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_?” Hermione pondered, turning the book over in her hands. “But this is a children’s book!”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Just read it,” she huffed, giving Hermione a playful cuff on the shoulder. “You’ll see.”

After that, Ginny went back downstairs, leaving Hermione to her reading. The older girl flipped through the ragged little volume, which showed obvious signs of having been quite beloved by more than one child. Each of the Weasley children, she discovered, had written their name in the cover, probably as soon as they had learned how to spell it, from Bill down to Genevra. (Percy, true to form, had written his full name, in a noticeably neater script than the rest of his siblings.)

The story she was supposed to read was nearly at the end of the book, sandwiched between the decidedly odd “Babbity Rabbity and Her Cackling Stump” and the much more pedestrian-sounding “The Tale of the Three Brothers.” Reclining back into the pillows in her bed, Hermione began to read:

_In the long-ago, there lived a fisher boy on a island in the furthest sea. It was a strange land where no one knew of magic, and souls did not bind to one another. Every day the boy fished with his nets in a quiet cove, and every night he dreamed of catching beautiful fish._

_One night, the boy had a strange dream. He dreamed that he went down to the cove with his nets, casting them out on waters with reflections like pale green glass. When he brought in his nets, they were filled, not with fish, but with shining silver leaves. The leaves were long and thin, like tiny fish, but he had never seen such leaves before. The leaves of his home were broad and fan-like, not slim like fingerlings. He looked down again into the water, and beheld the reflection of a beautiful maiden, slim and neat, with skin the color of moonlight, and eyes that shone like stars. In his dream, she smiled, and beckoned to him out of the waters._

_The next day, the boy asked everyone he knew where there were leaves like little fishes, but no one knew. So the boy packed up his nets into a little boat, and began to paddle towards the neighboring island._

_When he reached the second island, the boy fell immediately to sleep. That night, he had another strange dream. He was casting his nets out like before, but on the neighboring island. In with the leaves like little fishes was one large leaf, long and fringed, like a giant hand with many fingers. The beautiful maiden appeared as before, and beckoned._

_The next morning, the boy asked if anyone knew of leaves like little fishes, but they did not. Then he asked them if they knew any leaves like giant hands with many fingers, and the villagers pointed him toward a small island in the distance. “There,” they said, “are trees with such leaves.” So the boy packed up his nets into his little boat, and began to paddle towards the distant island._

_When he arrived on the island, he again fell fast asleep, and began to dream once more. This time, in his net with the leaves like little fishes was another leaf: a glossy oval leaf with deep grooves like the inside of a boat. The maiden again appeared in the water, and again she beckoned._

_As before, the boy woke next day asked about both the leaves, the glossy leaf with grooves and the leaves like little fishes. No one had seen leaves like little fishes, but the glossy oval leaves they had seen on an island in the far distance. Again the boy packed up his nets into his little boat, and began to paddle towards the next island._

_On the third island from his home, the boy again fell asleep, and dreamed a third time of a single leaf among the leaves like little fishes. This time, the leaf was pale gold, and shaped like the head of a fishing-spear. The beautiful maiden appeared and beckoned as before._

_When the boy asked next day about the leaves like little fishes, the people of the island did not know. When he asked about the leaf like a gold spear-head, the villagers pointed at the long line on the horizon, saying such leaves could be found there._

_Again he paddled, until at last he came to dry land: it was not an island as before, but a vast shore, the likes of which he had never seen. Leaving his boat on the shore he went into the village, and asked the people there if they had ever seen leaves that looked like little fishes. The villagers told him that such trees did not grow here, but that leaves like little fishes sometimes came down the river. The boy then went back to his boat, paddled to the mouth of the river, and began to make his way upstream._

_For three days he paddled, until the stream was too small to hold his boat any longer. Then he gathered up his nets into a sling, and began to follow the stream on foot. At the top of the spring there was a fall, and at the top of the falls there was a serene pool of water like pale green glass. All around the pool were tall trees with gnarled trunks, and long thin branches that dipped into the water, which were covered with long, silvery green leaves like little fishes._

_Under the largest tree he saw the beautiful maiden, whose skin was like moonlight and whose eyes shone like stars. When she saw him, she smiled, and said, “You are the boy who catches fish like willow leaves! I am glad you have come.” With a wave of her hand, hundreds of willow leaves fluttered down into the pool, where they transformed into schools of darting silver fish._

_The boy marvelled at this wonder, and laughed with joy at the beautiful fish the maiden had created. And the two of them were never parted from that very day._

Hermione shut the book with a snap, and leaned back against the headboard of Ginny’s bed. Closing her eyes, she let her thoughts wander. She wasn’t quite ready to stuff any more ideas into her already busy mind until these had had a chance to settle.

* * *

In the next few weeks, Hermione had one or two more dreams, and she took assiduous notes of everything she could remember about them as soon as she woke. Each dream gave her another nearly-magical creature to catalog, and another location to describe and record.

On the night of the second of August, she had a breakthrough. The three of them were coming back from interviewing a family about an infestation of what Dean’s father called ghouls, although, again, the creature he described sounded different from the ghoul who lived in the attic of the Burrow, which lived off insects and other vermin. These, apparently, ate human corpses, and sometimes living people, then taking the form of their last victim. They’d been tracking reports of recently deceased persons being seen, and they had tracked the sightings to yet another (possibly North American) small town. She and Sammy had been talking to the children, while their father talked to the parents.

They had just left the family’s home, the parents waving them off from the window, when their father stopped suddenly, an odd look on his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him, her clipped words carrying the overtones of a slightly lower voice, one that was not her own.

“Something’s off,” his father rumbled, hand reaching immediately for a firearm at his waistband. Turning around, he sent her and Sammy off towards the car at a careful walk. She balked at the notion, but hesitated only a moment. No sooner had their father lifted his hand to knock on the door of the house again, the door swung open, revealing both parents. The couple were smiling broad, unfriendly smiles, and their eyes were solid black.

“Go,” their father growled, but she and her brother remained frozen to the spot. His posture had changed, and he seemed more like a feral animal than a man. “GO!” he bellowed, and the vehemence of the command went straight to their spines, and both she and Sammy pelted down the drive towards a sleek black automobile.

_A black car with a rear number plate that said “Kansas”._

Hermione’s excitement at discovering the clue nearly overrode her dread of the terrors posing as people that were no more than a dozen meters away. Jumping into the left side of the car, Hermione pulled a key from a pocket in her denim jacket, driving it home into the ignition.  The dream ended with the sound of the motor as it roared to life, just as the rear door shut fast with their father, breathing hard, inside.

She awoke with a gasp, making an involuntary grab for her notebook, scribbling madly with the biro she had brought with her from home. Her pen was still scratching across the pages when Molly knocked on the door, just as the pre-dawn light was beginning to creep in the bedroom window. “Girls? Time to get up now!” she called from outside, and Hermione went to the door.

“Already?” she inquired as she opened up the door just wide enough to stick her head out into the hall.

Mrs. Weasley’s face was drawn, with a tense expression she didn’t often wear. “Yes, dear,” she said, words clipped with worry, “there’s been a change of plans. Get dressed, pack your school things, and come down to the kitchen. We’ll talk once we’re all together.”

Hermione nodded wordlessly, shutting the door as she went to wake Ginny. The red-headed girl was sitting up already, blinking her eyes blearily as she attempted to rouse herself. “What’s going on?” Ginny mumbled grumpily.

“I’m not sure,” Hermione replied, already stowing her dream journal along with rest of her books and her little beaded bag in her school trunk. “It sounds like something happened last night. We’ll find out at breakfast. Pack your school things,” she said, hurriedly searching under the bed for any stray books or bits of clothing, “it sounds like we’ll need them.”


	6. Welcome to My Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean spends a few months in a boys' home, where he gets more dreams, some good advice, and some intense worries.

**September 1995** ****  
  
Dean had been congratulating himself all summer for successfully dodging his soulmate’s dreams. He’d been on that weird-ass sleep schedule for almost half a year, and found that it had only honed his ability to sleep whenever he needed to. It was a pretty useful skill, and his dad had gone so far as to comment on it, with that short little nod of his that was as good as a stamp of approval from anyone else.

That was, anyway, until he’d been picked up for shoplifting.

 _That_ had been a shitshow from the word ‘go’. Not only had he been arrested, but the Powers That Be had declared Dean had to go to some home for wayward boys or some shit, and his dad had just gone with it. Gave him some line about it being “a just punishment”–not for stealing, like the cops no doubt assumed–but for being stupid enough to lose all his money to a card shark, and then get caught when he had to steal food for his little brother, instead of paying for it.

So he’d spent two months at Sonny’s farm, where they expected you to get regular sleep at regular times, and even though he would try and stay awake as long as possible at night, curfew was strictly enforced, and there wasn’t much you could do in a dark room with a bunch of other people sawing logs that didn’t end up with you passing out from sheer boredom. It had taken all of a week before he was falling asleep at 10 p.m. (damn that sleep-anytime skill, it was starting to suck), and heading straight for dreamland.

At first, it hadn’t been much. She was worried about the Indian kid (named Harry, he eventually found out), and there were some pretty creepy characters that chased them -- Harry, the redheaded dude, and his soulmate -- through the dreams, including some sort of hooded, flying thing that looked kind of like a shtriga, except it was attacking everyone, not just kids.

By the second week of September, she was starting to have nightmares about some butt-ugly woman in the clothes the color of Pepto-Bismol, who kept shouting orders outlawing ever more ridiculous things, up to and including _breathing_. (That dream had shifted right back into the underwater nightmare, except this time Dean _did_ need to breathe, and the shark was a real shark that tried to eat him. He blamed that one on the third helping of lasagna and the _Jaws_ movie marathon.)

The next morning, a Saturday, he’d been so groggy and out of sorts that Sonny took Dean aside before he and the other boys got to their morning chores (it was Dean’s turn to take out the trash). He glowered at Dean out from under his black brows, pinning him with a glare that brooked no argument and accepted no excuses. “What’s going on with you, Dean?” he demanded, a scowl digging deep trenches in his face. “You were making some real improvement until about a week ago, but lately you’ve been acting withdrawn again. You don’t pay attention, you’re barely sleeping, and none of that is healthy.” Sonny leaned back against the kitchen counter, thick arms folded across his broad chest. “You can’t keep on like this, so spill.”

Reflexively, Dean hunched up his shoulders, as though protecting himself from an attack. Sonny didn’t move, though. He just waited until Dean finally broke the silence himself, more out of discomfort with it than any particular willingness to talk.

“I’ve been, well, dreaming,” he said finally, voice starting out only somewhat audible, and falling gradually into a close-mouthed mumble, “about my soulmate.”

Immediately Sonny’s expression changed. His furrowed eyebrows leapt up into his long, shaggy hair, and he stroked his handlebar mustache. “I see,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “That’s usually a good thing, right? So what’s been keeping you up nights?”

“Well,” Dean hedged, still sussing out the problem himself. “Her dreams are, um, well…I’m uneasy, that’s all,” he ended, hoping Sonny would take the hint.

“Huh,” the older man muttered, the tips of his mustache dipping even lower with his frown. “Now, I won’t pry into specifics, but I’d like to ask: is she uneasy in her dreams, or are you uneasy for her?”

“Kind of both? I don’t know, man,” Dean admitted, slumping back a bit over the counter and letting his head hang back onto his neck. “It’s, I mean, she has these weird dreams, and she’s really worried about her friends, like there’s this dark cloud hanging over all of them, so I end up worried about her friends, but then I think whatever’s happening to them, she’s right there, and then I start worrying about her, too.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I didn’t even know this could happen to anybody, let alone that it could get this weird.”

Sonny pinned him with a steady look, though it wasn’t unkind. “Well, kid, I don’t know what to tell ya,” he said after a long moment’s pause. “You have to trust your gut in these things. No one else can tell you how to do these sorts of things, and if they do try to tell you, they’re gonna be dead wrong, every time.” He pulled a utility knife out of his back pocket, unfolded it, and began to clean under his fingernails into the kitchen trash. “What does your gut tell you?” he asked, with a nonchalance that it surprised Dean to see coming out of the intense, decisive man.

Dean was quiet for a long while, wrestling with the sick wrenching in his stomach. After that last dream, he was terrified for the girl, and her friends, like he knew something was hunting them. Even if she knew what it was, he surely didn’t. “That she’s in danger,” he said at last, his voice a husky whisper, scarcely heard. “I don’t know what from, but whatever it is,” he breathed, “it’s bad.”

Sonny pinned him with another long look, though whether the intensity was from doubt or experience, Dean couldn’t tell. They stood there for a long time, looking at each other, until the older man broke his gaze and sighed, and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Well, kid,” he said, face inscrutable, “trash isn’t gonna take itself out.”

Dean frowned a bit at this abrupt shift, but squared his shoulders and gave the man a quick nod. “Yessir,” he replied reflexively, which won him another hard look from the man. “Uh, sure thing, Sonny,” he corrected, and ducked out with the trash in tow before he could get another lecture.

* * *

After that, it was a few weeks again before Dean had anything but his most normal dreams, and he became increasingly more worried that something had happened to his soulmate. He was so agitated that he snapped at Sonny, which earned him KP for the remainder of the week. He spent most of the first afternoon fretfully chopping up vegetables for that night’s dinner before he calmed down enough to think rationally about the situation.

Maybe things had gotten better for her, he supposed. There were other reasons for not dreaming than being dead, right? Maybe she wasn’t so stressed. Maybe she was just really tired. Maybe she was just worried about regular stuff, and the whole dark-powers-threatening-her thing had just been _his_ worry, in his head. I mean, she didn’t look like a hunter, so maybe she was just a civilian, and not really in any danger at all?  Hell, Dean didn’t even know if there were supernatural creatures in the UK or wherever - all the Hunters he’d heard of or met were Americans, right? Maybe there’s something weird about this place that makes it a breeding ground, and other places aren’t like this.  Hell, maybe she just took a frigging _sleeping pill_ or something so she wouldn’t dream as much. Who knows? It wasn’t like he’d dreamed of her every night since January. There had been breaks, sometimes for weeks. There was no reason to assume something bad had happened to her.

Dean shook his head, amazed at how much the voice of reason sounded like little Sammy, explaining things to him like he was being an idiot. Which, Dean supposed, he was doing right about now. When Sonny came back into the kitchen to check on him about an hour after he’d been sent up for chopping duty, Dean involuntarily scrunched his face into that little “shit, yeah, I messed up” expression that his father had always hated so much.  Sonny had just shrugged, and given Dean a quick nod, and commented on the state of the vegetables that were ready for the soup pot.  No “feel better?”, no lecture, just a quiet, ungrudging acceptance, and Dean knew he was back in the man’s good graces.

* * *

 

Turns out he hadn’t needed to have worried about his soulmate being gone at all.

That very night, the dreams returned with a vengeance. Most of it was muddled, confused: full of feelings of terror at being caught and determination to...to what, he wasn’t sure. But he could feel the rush of her emotions, anger and indignance and desperation and hope. The pink frog woman was back, though, and she chased the girl and her friends through room after room, every one with a fireplace that roared up in green flames as they passed.

For ages, it seemed, they raced through these rooms, coming out eventually into a huge open room with literally a dozen moving staircases (this place, again?). He felt dangerously overexposed, and the three of them shrank back into the shadows as that horrible pink woman, now more than half toad, leapt over the place they’d been standing and bounded away through a huge set of open doors.

Then she (he) whispered “now’s our chance,” and the three of them were off again, up one of the flights of stone stairs. They reached a landing and careened down a hallway, coming to a stop in front of a tapestry of some sort. A door appeared out of nowhere, and they escaped inside.

The room beyond was filled with other students gathered in groups, sitting huddled together or standing in groups of two or three, speaking low voices. As the three of them came to a halt, all the other students stood and turned towards them, every face a mask of horror and betrayal. “TRAITOR!” bellowed one of them, a red-headed girl, and a shadow was cast over the entire room.

Dean turned around to see the frog-woman, now almost three times as big as any human being had a right to be, frog body swollen and distended, legs transformed into a squat, stubby tail, like she was half salamander or snake. The tail whipped around and grabbed him, lengthening and wrapping around him two and three times, while the monstrous woman chastised him in a sickly sweet, simpering voice: “You should have been more careful, my dear. I’ve found you out, you filthy little…”

Suddenly Dean was sitting upright in bed, covered in sweat and shivering. There wasn’t a sound in the room that was out of place, though his senses were on high alert as if he was on a hunt that was rapidly going south. His eyes darted around the room, searching for something untoward in the darkness. Automatically he reached for his silver knife that wasn’t there. Scowling, he grabbed the little bag of salt he kept under his pillow, and made a silent survey of the room. It wasn’t until he had checked every doorway, every windowsill, that he had calmed down enough to return to his bed, to fall into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Dean had been on edge ever since that last dream: always on guard, with an itch to _do something_. He didn’t know what he could do, so he’d been volunteering for any extra chores he could get, so much that Sonny had given him one of those inscrutable looks, and put him in charge of the duty roster for a week. He’d taken to it well, and the other boys had been generally pretty pleased with getting a break from all but the lightest chores. Sonny had taken him, as a reward, to the diner in town, and treated him to as much pie as he could eat.

Going to the diner meant Dean had gotten to see Robin again, the pretty waitress who’d kind of flirted with him before when she’d been up at the Boys’ Home, that one time she and her mom came to teach the boys guitar. He’d enjoyed it, sure, but once they really got to talking, he’d let it slip, half-guiltily, about the dreams. Her face had gone still, and the smile she’d turned on him was sad, but only a little. She’d kissed him sweetly on the cheek, and said how lucky he was, and invited him to the fall dance anyway, as friends.

They were supposed to go, that next Saturday. It felt so normal, to be a kid in high school, going to a dance with a pretty girl, looking forward to having some fun that wasn’t also life-threatening. This was _living_. I mean, there was nothing like a hunt to make you feel the rush of being alive, but this was different. It was...having a life. Like, a real one. Even though Robin wasn’t his soulmate, she was smart, and pretty, and she liked him, and he didn’t have to earn any of it. It wasn’t about duty or honor or being family. It was just...nice.

He’d still been fidgeting and restless, but more with nerves and excitement than out of fear for his soulmate. The dream had faded a bit, enough that he could look at it without freaking out, and once he’d written it down in his memo pad, he’d felt a lot better. Still, he’d worried a bit about going to the dance with Robin–like it was a jerk move or something, considering he had a soulmate–but Sonny had just snorted into his beer, and said “Just behave yourself, punk. You’re lucky.”

Dean had nearly started to believe it, too.

Of course, his fucking dad _had_ to show up that Saturday. Of course he did. And John Winchester didn’t back down from a hunt, and his son would by God do it, too, if he had anything to say about it.

His dad wouldn’t even stop at the diner, so Dean could tell Robin he was leaving. In protest, Dean had just stared out the window, refusing to speak to his father, while Sammy played with Army men in the back seat, all the way back to Bobby’s.


	7. Crazy Dreams

**Chapter 7: Crazy Dreams**

**December 1995**

Hermione sank into the lone empty chair at the fireside in the Gryffindor common room with a sigh of grateful relief. _If it hadn’t been for the DA,_ she considered, _this entire term would have been a disaster_. From the moment Dolores Umbridge had stood up to speak at the start of term feast, something in Hermione had wanted to start screaming obscenities, just to drown out every poisonous word from that revoltingly saccharine voice. 

She had heard voices like that before when she was in primary school, spewing hatred in the acceptable code of the day, so that people who weren’t really listening could ignore the insults their words carried. Hermione had refused to hide her cleverness, and being a clever black girl had never been a popular in her old schools. When she’d gotten to Hogwarts, she’d hoped, perhaps naively, that people wouldn’t expect less of her because of her sex or parentage. It had been a disappointing blow when she realized that the Wizarding World was no more enlightened than the Muggle World, only exchanging blood status for race. Yet again she was singled out because of something she couldn’t help, and it had taken more than one tearful conversation with her mother for Hermione to be able to face coming back in her second year.

Instead, she had resolved to do her best, to excel where people expected her to fail, and to keep up with her Muggle coursework as well. She was, perhaps, better prepared than some of her other classmates, accustomed as she was to flying in the face of adversity. Once she’d stopped panicking about the flood of Educational Decrees and started doing something about it (namely the DA), she had felt galvanized. The difference between being alone in a struggle and resisting together with people she could trust was a significant one.

At any rate, the first half of the year was nearly over, and Hermione had been hoping they would all be able to take a bit of a rest over the holiday break. She’d have her Muggle school readings, of course, but there would be time for that between seeing her parents and the inevitable visit to the Burrow. Some time just for family, both born and made, was just what they all needed.

And then Mr. Weasley had been attacked.

He was alive, thank Merlin, but now it was clear that the holidays would be spent behind wards instead of in the bosom of family. Her parents would understand, certainly, if she asked to spend the holidays with her friends, but she couldn’t lie to her mother about _why_.

As soon as they were back in Grimmauld Place, Hermione cornered Tonks in the kitchen of Number 12. There was no way she was going to endanger her parents by sending them an owl, but she was willing to bet that if anyone could get her outside to place a phone call, it would be her.

“Wotcher, Hermione!” Tonks beamed, as soon as she saw Hermione approach. “How did your term go?”

“As well as can be expected,” Hermione replied, determined not to be deterred from her plan. “Tonks, I could really use your help.”

The older witch’s hair faded from her usual bubblegum pink to a slightly more sedate mauve, when she caught Hermione’s serious expression. “What do you need?” she asked.

“I’ve got to communicate with my parents somehow, and it can’t be using magical means. A phone call would be best, or I could post a letter, but that would take too long. I have to tell them what’s going on, at least as far as why I can’t come home over the holidays.”

Tonks tapped her finger on her chin, thinking. “Maybe,” she said, “but I’d have to clear it first. I think there’s a payphone near the Leaky Cauldron, if we could get permission to go there.”

Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat, nerves suddenly straining at the chance to talk to her mum. “Could you?” she flustered, and she flung her arms around a very surprised Tonks. “You’re the best!”

“I can’t make any promises,” Tonks replied as Hermione let her go, “but I’ll do what I can.”

\-----

It was a good bit later in the evening, but Hermione did manage to ring her parents from the pay phone on the street just outside the Leaky Cauldron. Both Tonks and Professor Lupin had accompanied her, and were now standing to either side of the call box, watching both sides of the street. From Hermione’s perspective, it looked like Tonks was playing the role of her friend, who was waiting for her to get off the phone, while Lupin just looked bored, as though waiting his turn. As the call went through, she wondered briefly if the Order trained all its members to be surreptitious like this.

“Granger residence, Dr. Granger speaking.”

“Mum?” Hermione’s voice cracked, though she hadn’t meant it to.

“God, Hermione, are you alright?” her mother’s voice crackled down the line. “When we didn’t hear from you after your last letter, we...well, we were very worried.”

“I’m fine, Mum,” Hermione said, eyes welling up a bit. “Term ended today, and I’m back in London now. I’m...I’m staying with Harry right now, and the Weasley’s, at Harry’s godfather’s house.” She fought the urge to tell her mother exactly where, knowing the Fidelius was a good reason not to. “It’s in Islington,” she said finally, hoping that would be enough.

“Tell me where, darling, and I’ll pick you up,” her mother replied, a slightly nervous edge Hermione hadn’t heard before.

“Mum,” Hermione croaked, working to keep her tone even and unconcerned, “I need to stay here, for a few more days at least. It’s, well, I need to be here. Harry’s having some trouble, and I think I might be able to help.” She took a deep breath, and held it for a few seconds. “Mum,” she said finally, “do you know anything about soulmates?”

“About...so those are real, as well?” her mother asked, disbelief coloring her voice. “Is that what this is about? Are you...are you dreaming about Harry?”

“What? No!” Hermione retorted, face reddening. “I mean, yes, I am dreaming about someone, at least I think I am, but no, it’s not Harry.” An uncomfortable laugh escaped her before she could tamp it down. “But Harry’s acting strangely, because of..because of some dreams he’s been having, and I’m wondering if..well, if I could help, is all,” she ended, somewhat vaguely. “I also want to ask Professor Lupin what he knows about soulmate dreams,” she went on, when the listening silence continued. “Mine...it’s strange. I didn’t think soulmates existed either, until Mrs. Weasley told me about herself and Mr. Weasley. But my soulmate...whoever he is, he only seems to have nightmares.”

A longer, more contemplative silence followed. After a moment, her mother let out a small sigh of recognition. “And Professor Lupin was your Defense instructor, yes? If you think something evil or wrong is happening, then he seems a logical person to ask.”

Hermione grinned into the phone. “Thank you, Mum. That’s what I was hoping.”

“I understand why you want to stay, dear,” her mother replied. “Will we see you at Christmas, then?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted, tugging on one of the twists in her hair, now that it had come to the point. “I’m not sure if...if it’s safe.”

“Not safe?” her mother queried, that note of worry honing her voice once more. “How do you mean, not safe?”

It was now or never. “There was an attack. On Mr. Weasley,” Hermione plunged ahead, knowing she’d get grief from both her parents for admitting such a thing. Still, hiding the truth didn’t really protect her or them, no matter how good her intentions. “He’s in hospital, and they don’t think he’ll die, but...but until those responsible are caught, I don’t want to risk you and Dad being hurt as well. I don’t think I’m a target, but we can be protected here, and I can’t do those kinds of protections for you at home.”

Hermione held her breath, waiting for her mother’s response. She didn’t know what to expect, honestly: taking on too much responsibility for things that weren’t hers to worry about had, historically, made her mother more upset than angry, but that hadn’t stopped the lectures from being long or intense.

The other end of the line was curiously silent. “I…I think I understand,” her mother began, haltingly, and much quieter than Hermione had been expecting. “Hermione, you...you are safe? Where you are?”

 

“As safe as we can be,” she replied, although her hesitation to say ‘yes’ unnerved her somewhat. “I’ll call, or write, as often as I can, to let you know I’m safe. It’ll be regular post, though I don’t know if you’ll be able to write back, but I’ll find out.” Hermione paused a minute, making eye contact with Tonks just outside the booth. The pink-haired witch was still standing there patiently, although it was clear that it was time to go. “Mum, I’ve got to go.”

“Be safe, darling,” her mother insisted. “Write soon, and let me know when we can see you.”

“I will, Mum,” Hermione agreed, voice catching in her throat. “I will.”

Placing the receiver in its cradle, Hermione scrubbed a tear off her cheek before joining Remus and Tonks outside. The day was crisp and cold, in spite of the clouds overhead, and the three of them walked companionably along, back to the relative cover of the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron, before Apparating to Grimmauld Place.

By the time they returned, Mrs. Weasley was waiting for Tonks to relieve her from guard duty.  Tonks bid both of them farewell in her usual jaunty way, with a grin for Hermione and a wink for Lupin, leaving Molly shaking her head.

“You’d think she was still a student at Hogwarts, the way she is,” Molly sighed with exasperated fondness. “I wonder sometimes if she takes things as seriously as she ought.”

“We need a little levity around here,” Lupin replied, with an odd little smile. “I daresay she’s good for us.” Hermione just caught the wordless expression that passed between the two adults, and when she left for the kitchens, there was a gleam in Molly’s eye that hadn’t been there before. Sighing, Lupin sank down in one of the high-back chairs, covering his eyes with one hand.

Hermione stayed where she was, hesitating. Her first impulse was to go find Harry, Ron and Ginny, but the conversation with her mother had brought some of her own thoughts and worries bubbling to the surface, and she wasn’t sure that her friends were the right people to speak to about these things, at least until she was more certain on what, exactly, her mind was trying to tell her.

Lupin must have noticed her hesitation, because he lifted the hand from his eyes and asked, “Is something troubling you, Ms. Granger?”

Hermione cursed herself for forgetting: Of _course_ he would notice something was wrong. _It’s not like werewolves have particularly keen senses or anything_ , she could almost hear Harry saying to her. She steeled herself, plopping down in the next chair with a sigh of her own. “To tell the truth, Professor,” she began, not knowing how much she really wanted to ask him.

“Remus, please,” he interrupted, with a wry smile. “I’m not a professor anymore, remember?”  

“It’s habit,” she replied, “but I’ll try to remember.” She took a deep breath, and then thought about where to begin. There was a lot that was troubling her, and most of it was rather jumbled, but one thread seemed to run through it all.

“What do you know about soulmates?”

If Remus was taken aback by her question, he showed very little sign, almost as if he’d been expecting it. “I know a little,” he said, and Hermione was surprised to see a faint tinge of pink warming his usually pallid face. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” she hedged, “it’s two things, really.” She glanced down at her hands in her lap, and noticed she was tearing one of her fingernails again. “I didn’t think they were real, but then, well, I started dreaming.”

She looked up at her erstwhile professor, and Lupin’s expression was one of slightly bemused apprehension. “I see,” he said, “but why do you want to talk to me about it? Surely, someone more like Molly…”

“I’ve told Mrs. Weasley about that already,” she interjected. “She’s the one who told me they were real, and she answered a lot of my questions already. But there is...something more,” she continued, cautiously. “I know you’re supposed to dream your soulmate’s dreams, but, well, mine only seems to have nightmares.”

“That’s understandable,” Lupin replied, leaning back in his chair. “You don’t dream every dream your soulmate has, just the ones that are more intense than your own dreams that night. Getting more nightmares than good or even strange dreams is perfectly normal, from what I understand.”

“No,” she retorted immediately, “that’s not it at all. I mean I have never had a good dream of his, or even just a strange one. No normal ones like school stress or people laughing at you. _Only_ nightmares, full of running and chasing...and killing things,” Hermione admitted, shivering with the memory of the violence. “And it’s all wrong,” she continued, words spilling out in a torrent. “It’s like he’s hunting magical creatures, but they’re not _right_. Sometimes they look like monsters, but they mostly look like people, just with fangs or talons or entirely-black eyes.”

Lupin was staring at her with a mixture of horror and concern. “Now I understand why you’re so upset,” he said, leaning forward again. “It’s true, sometimes a person’s soulmate turns out to be, well, not the nicest person, but usually that’s because,” Lupin explained, clearing his throat, “the other soulmate isn’t either. In this case,” he continued, giving her that intense I’m-making-a-point expression, “I can’t think of any reason why anyone but a very good, hardworking, and loyal person would be your soulmate, Hermione.”

At this Hermione’s cheeks flushed a deep maroon, but as nice as that compliment was, it didn’t alleviate her fears. “Do...do you think he could be cursed?” she said, barely above a whisper.

Lupin considered this a while, chin resting on his hand. “It is possible,” he said at length, “or he simply may have a great many fears. It is likewise possible, although I hate to say it, that he is living in a chaotic, maybe even abusive, situation.” Lupin’s face was grave, and he paused slightly before speaking again. “If I may ask,” he said eventually, “do you know who your soulmate is yet? It is likely early yet, I know,” he continued, “but when you mentioned nightmares, I thought...we might both know him.”

His expression was so trepidacious, Hermione almost laughed. “No,” she said with a half-smile, “it’s not Harry, if that’s what you mean. Although,” she mused, “that is the other reason I wanted to speak with you, about Harry’s visions. When they first started, I wasn’t thinking about my soulmate much, but then I had another dream and, well, it’s strange,” she said. “Harry’s dreams aren’t his dreams, and they can’t be his soulmate’s dreams, but how else could he be having someone else’s dreams, unless they were somehow connected?”

At this pronouncement, Lupin’s face went even whiter with shock, if such a thing were possible. “Hermione,” he warned, voice nearly trembling with some suppressed emotion, “if you are correct, then some of the darkest magic we know is at work here. Thank you for telling me this, but I urge you not to talk to anyone else about it, not until I’ve spoken to Professor Dumbledore. If what I’m thinking is correct,” he said, voice hushed and intense, “then Harry is in much more peril than I thought.”

Hermione’s heart plummeted into her stomach, and tears sprang into her eyes, but Lupin laid a calming hand on her shoulder. “I may be very, very wrong,” he said sternly, “which is why I’m taking this to Albus _immediately_. We should find out whether or not I am right, and we should know as soon as possible. Please,” he implored, “do not assume I am correct, or worry about it until we know.” At Hermione’s weak smile, he gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Keep your mind busy with something else in the meantime, it will help. I believe there may be a book or two on various curses in this house, somewhere,” he hinted, “so perhaps you should check the library and see what you find. With any luck, you can learn something while I do.”

Hermione nodded mutely, wiping away the remaining tears stuck to her eyelashes. “Thank you, Prof...I mean, Remus,” she corrected herself. “Please, let me know what Professor Dumbledore says?”

“As soon as I know anything for certain, you will, as well,” he promised. “Now,” he said, getting to his feet, “I’d best be off. If you need anything else,” he suggested, “go to Molly. She is a font of wisdom. You can ask her anything.”

“Like you did, about Tonks,” Hermione said, before she could stop herself.

The cast of color over his pale face reappeared, and his eyes even twinkled a bit, fondly. “Ah, Hermione,” he said, shaking his head, “you truly are the brightest witch of your age.”


	8. These Dreams of You

Dean awoke in the pitch black of their ratty little hotel room, roused apparently by his dad’s snoring in the other bed. He’d been dreaming again, although his alcohol-addled brain couldn’t quite keep a hold of the details this time. He’d had this sense that something was, well, trying to get his attention. He couldn’t remember what about, or even if it had been important, but the fact of it was lurking around the edges of his consciousness, defying both being ignored and seen in full.  
  
He wondered if this was what being hungover felt like. His dad had shouted at him plenty about that, after dragging Dean out of that club by sheer force of personality. When he’d heard his name in that steel-edged tone, even half-volume as it had been, he’d known he was in for it. The rest of the bar clientele knew it, too. Not a single person had made eye contact with him as they’d left. Dean had felt a twinge of disappointment at the time, although that had been quickly stuffed down with the rest of his feelings, knowing that showing anything at all would be asking for a quick and public response from his father.

The entire way back to the motel, he’d managed not to smart-mouth his dad, saying only ‘yessir’ and ‘nosir’ when prompted. He’d felt stone cold sober then, trying to be as still and inoffensive as possible, so that automatic bad didn’t go to horribly worse in a hurry.

Once John had shouted himself hoarse in the car, extracting promises of seriousness and commitment to the job from Dean, they’d mounted the stairs to their room again (Dean was pretty sure that not taking the elevator was also punishment), rejoining Sam, who was still fast asleep in bed where Dean had left him. John had admonished him then once more, in a harsh, hushed whisper, that he was not ever to pull that kind of stunt again, not if he wanted Sammy to grow up right.  
  
That one had hooked him. He’d looked again at his brother, nearly thirteen and gangly, sleeping peacefully in the bed they shared. Dean had peered at him blearily, the effects of the night’s escapades coming back to him, dulling his senses and blurring his vision, and he had seen in his brother’s almost-teenage face the little boy he had once been, completely innocent and in dire need of his brother’s protection.

Dean had mumbled his agreement, but John was already in bed, asleep.

Reaching over to the nightstand, Dean tipped up the clock, and the glowing red numbers proclaimed it about three in the morning. Two more hours to get some shuteye before John would have them up and in the car. He debated getting up to relieve himself, but decided he could wait. That’d make it easier to wake up then, anyway.

With the vestiges of his dream temporarily forgotten, Dean soon drifted off to sleep himself.

* * *

A shrill, screeching sound dragged Dean back out of sleep again. He groaned as the piercing tones penetrated his skull, like they were spiking directly through his scalp, bypassing his ears completely. When someone yanked the pillow out of Dean’s death grip, the noise just stabbed his ears, too.

“Up and at ‘em, Dean,” his father boomed.

Muttering a curse into the mattress, Dean resisted the urge to pull the blankets over his head instead.

“What was that?”

“I gotta go pee,” Dean hedged, as he levered himself unsteadily up off the mattress, which was definitely his first mistake. The throbbing behind his temples intensified and multiplied, sending cascades of pain through every layer of his head. He hadn’t known he had layers in his head, but he by God felt every single one now.

Hanging onto the wall, Dean staggered into the tiny bathroom, where Sam was already in the shower. The steam in the room felt good, the sound of the spray deadening the echoes in the room and in his head. He couldn’t stay here long, he knew, but he could finagle a good five minutes of relative peace out of this one. His dad got sick of the alarm after about a minute. Dean waited as long as he dared, until Sam finally stuck his arm out of the shower, flailing about wildly for the washcloth he’d left hanging on the bar. Sighing, Dean grabbed one and shoved it at his brother, who grunted a sleepy ‘thanks’.

Taking this as his cue, Dean took a moment to wash his hands, then opened the medicine cabinet, on the off chance there was something in it for his head. He wasn’t disappointed: some kind (or forgetful) soul had left a bottle of aspirin behind at some point, and either the cleaning crews hadn’t bothered to look, or they hadn’t bothered to take it away. They were expired, but only by a couple months. They might not work, but they wouldn’t hurt.

Popping a couple in his mouth, Dean ran the water for a couple seconds, cupping his hands to get a drink from the bathroom tap. He managed to wash the tablets down, though his mouth tasted nasty for a bit after. Having nothing else to do, Dean went back into the room to face the music.

His dad was, to Dean’s surprise, sitting calmly on the edge of his bed. Not sure what to say, Dean just stood in front of him, waiting for a torrent of words that never came.  
  
John pinned his elder son with a weary look. “Do you know why that was a stupid thing to do, Dean?” he asked.

“Yessir,” Dean replied automatically.

“And are you going to pull a stunt like that again?”

“Nosir.” This one he meant, but definitely didn’t have to think about either. The way his head was pounding, there was no way he was going to do that again anytime soon.

“Do you remember what you had to drink?” John asked.

“Couple beers,” he said, actually thinking now. “Something called SoCo. Smelled like whiskey.”

His dad grimaced. “Someone bought you that, didn’t they? How many did you have?”

Dean frowned, but answered promptly enough for his father, at least. “One. It was weird crap. Had the beers after that.”

His dad nodded, but didn’t elaborate. “Get your things together, and we’ll grab breakfast before we hit the road,” he said instead. John looked his son up and down, then nodded again. “Skip coffee at breakfast. Drink water,” he finished, hefting his own duffel on his shoulder. “You’ll thank me for it.”  
  
The rest of the morning passed without further comment, either from his dad or his little brother, who was still half asleep, in spite of being up long enough to have showered and dressed. Sam got the front seat, leaving Dean to stretch out in the back seat of the Impala, and try to sleep through the blaring of the radio.

He did manage to get a little sleep, passing out somewhere in the middle of Ohio, only to fall into a dream in a now familiar setting. He was back in that stone house/castle thing again, this time surrounded by more than a few people. Dean recognized his soulmate’s two best friends in the crowd, though: the pale, freckle-faced redheaded kid was wearing a sour expression, and the shorter, darker skinned boy with the crazy black hair and the lightning scar was looking mutinous. He heard his own voice say, overlaid with the slightly higher pitched voice of his soulmate, "I told you it was going to get worse.” Then he looked up to stare at a poster or plaque on the wall, printed in antique looking letters:

_Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six: Teachers are hereby banned from giving students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach._

Privately, Dean wondered what the hell that was supposed to mean, but then the scene changed. The pink frog woman was back, looking more like a person this time, but when she grinned down at him, it was with razor-sharp teeth. “What do you think about that, Miss Granger, hm?” she sneered, voice dripping with scorn. “Let’s see you find your soulmate now, you wretched little _mudblood_ .” At this last word, Dean felt his ears flush, and his heart started pounding. Even though he didn’t know what in the world a ‘mudblood’ was, his fists clenched, and he ground his teeth at the obvious insult. “That’s right, my dear,” the woman simpered, lips now pursed in an expression of depraved anticipation, “lose that temper of yours. _Please_ . I’ve been _dying_ to give you detention.”  
  
At once, a searing pain shot through Dean’s left hand, and he looked down at it, watching in horror was curving lines began to etch themselves into the smooth flesh, blood welling up bright red against the dark skin. The lines deepened and connected, forming words. _I must not get ideas above my station_. Dean’s right fist clenched even tighter, his own rage battling with his soulmate’s distress. He pulled his right arm back, ready to throw a punch, and then, with a jolt, he woke up.

“Dean,” his father was saying from the front seat of the Impala. “We’re here.”

Dean’s teeth were still grinding, his blood still boiling. _You were dreaming,_ he told himself. _It’s not real, it’s just a dream_. But no matter how many times he tried it, the anger refused to dissipate. It was much longer than it should have been before he was able to answer his father without cursing. “Yessir,” he bit out, and his father gave him a sharp look.

“Dean,” he snapped, “get up. I’m getting us a room.”

“Yessir,” he repeated, this time with a bit less anger. He threw himself into his assigned task, heaving not only his and his brother’s things out of the trunk but his father’s too, shouldering the large duffel with one arm and grabbing up the smaller bags with the other. He stood there, holding all the bags, the adrenaline surge of fight-not-flight carrying him until his father came back with the keys and they’d all gotten into their motel room.

When Dean threw the bags into the closet with more force than necessary, John gave him a stern look but didn’t say anything. Dean took a deep breath and met his father’s gaze, exhaling slowly to show him that he was getting it under control. His dad nodded approval, muttered something about getting some grub, and left the room.

As soon as he was gone, Dean realized his brother was staring at him. “What?” Dean demanded, still on edge.

“Dude, what are you so pissed about?” Sam retorted. “I mean, you were asleep. What could possibly…”

“My soulmate’s in trouble,” Dean said before he could stop himself. “And I can’t do jack about it.” He flopped down on the nearest bed, falling onto his back, and he scrubbed his face with his hands. “There’s like some kind of tyrant teacher coming down on her and all her friends, and doing weird stuff… like, _witchy_ stuff.”  
  
Dean felt the mattress sink just a bit as his brother sat next to him. For a few minutes he said nothing, just sitting there in thought. “Dreams are weird,” Sam said at last, slowly, like the thoughts were still forming as he spoke them. “Are you sure that she’s in, like, actual danger? Maybe she’s, well, just really scared?”

“God,” Dean replied, that thought sinking in, “I have no idea. But if she’s that scared of something, what if the danger is real? I can’t just let something horrible happen to her because it might not be real.” He remembered the pink frog woman’s sharp-toothed smile, and he shuddered. “And think about it, Sammy,” he said, “we hunt supernatural creatures that most people don’t think are real. We should be the last people to dismiss something weird like this. Better to investigate and be wrong about it being dangerous, than leave it alone and be right.”

Sam nodded vaguely, then more decisively as Dean spoke. “Okay,” he said eventually, “but do you even know where she is? How to find her? I mean, all you have is her first name, right?”

“Right,” Dean sighed, and paused. “ _No_ ,” he said, sitting up. “No, I have her last name too! That evil-ass teacher called her….Miss Granger.”

“Your soulmate’s name is Hermione Granger,” Sam said, pensively, and when he heard the words, Dean felt a weird sharp sting in his chest. _She was real. She has a name, and she’s real._  

As the full force of the realization hit him, he was even more certain that she was in danger, and he had to find her, somehow. “Sam,” he said, voice cracking with restrained emotion, “I have to find her, Sammy. I have to. I don’t know how, but I’ve got to try.”

Sam stared at his brother like he’d suddenly sprouted a second head. “Okay,” he nodded, “okay, Dean. We’ll find her. We’ve got a name, and we know she goes to school in a castle or something, right? Any other clues?”

“British accent,” Dean replied automatically. “She has one, I think, and her friends definitely do. So England?”

“Could be,” Sam hedged, “and it’s as good a place to start as any. Listen,” he said, hearing the Impala’s tires crunching the gravel outside, “I’ll see what I can find when we get back to Sioux Falls. I think that’s where Dad’s parking us next. I can get to one of the university libraries and use the computers there, maybe find something out.”

Dean was about to stutter thanks to his little brother, but the key turned in the lock and the door to the motel room swung open, revealing his father, arms loaded with brown paper sacks. Both boys were on them in a second, relieving John of his burden and digging into the bags, which were filling the room with the smell of grilled meat and fried potatoes. The three of them dug into their meal with relish, and no further mention of soulmates was made that night.


	9. If I Could Reach You

She’d never considered herself a pessimist, but every time Umbridge or the Ministry made another change to the running of Hogwarts, Hermione came that much closer to understanding that kind of cynical point of view. As the winter progressed into spring, it became startlingly clear that there was literally no limit when it came to Umbridge pushing her completely backwards agenda on everyone at the school. No student or teacher had been exempt, except perhaps for Mr. Filch, who could occasionally be heard cackling with glee, anticipating the return of thumbscrews and other tortures as allowable punishments.

Not that Umbridge hadn’t devised worse torments already. Once she and Ron had discovered Harry’s injured hand, scarred and bleeding from her forcing him to use a Black Quill to write lines _in his own blood_ , for Merlin’s sake, the two of them had made certain that the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw prefects had known about this method of punishment, and coached the students in their own charge to either keep their noses clean as far as possible, or be cleverer about their disobedience. So far the DA had gone managed to avoid detection, but Hermione couldn’t escape the feeling that they should be doing something more.

As if that weren’t enough, her dreams had plunged her into ever deeper terrors. Monstrous versions of Umbridge were the usual theme: the woman’s toadlike face might feature dripping fangs, a jaw that hinged like a metal trap, or completely black eyes. Sometimes, too, the castle’s ghosts would lose their silver sheen, fall into a greenish-gray and turn malevolent, their usual temperaments devolving into little more than rage or despair.  
  
Then the OWL exam schedule had been announced, and she was once more writing exams every night while she slept, with a much more normal-looking Umbridge standing over her, shouting obscenities. Suddenly she had been aware—aware that she was dreaming, and she had looked down at her hands. They _were_ her hands, but there was a transparent image of someone else’s hands, superimposed upon her own—much paler, much larger hands.

For a moment in the dream, she froze, too startled to act. She had tried to contact her soulmate in her dreams before, writing notes to him whenever she’d become aware of her dreaming, but now...now she might actually have a chance.

Seizing her quill from the inkstand, she furiously scribbled line after line on the blank parchment, writing anything and everything she could think of: _Are you there? Can you read this? It’s me. It’s me, Hermione. Please tell me you can see this. I’m at….I’m here. I can’t write where I am, but I know your name is Dean, and your brother is Sammy. I don’t know where you are. Where are you? I’m at….at school, but I live in London with my parents. Please see this. Please, Dean._

She was still writing when a hand on her shoulder shook her awake.

“Hermione?” It was Parvati Patil. The girl looked sleep-mussed, equal parts annoyed and worried. “Are you okay?”

Startled out of sleep as she was, it took Hermione a few moments to be able to speak again. “I’m fine,” she managed eventually, an obvious untruth that Parvati caught at once. “Bad dream,” she admitted, grimacing.

“That I knew,” Parvati replied with a hint of smugness. “But you were thrashing so much, none of us could sleep.”

Hermione’s color deepened at this, cringing at the thought of the other Gryffindor fifth-year girls kept from their rest because of her dreams. “I’m...I’m sorry,” she said with more than a twinge of guilt.  
  
She had expected the other girl to leave her then, but Parvati gestured to the bed for permission, before sitting down at Hermione’s quick nod. “Look,” she said, “I know we don’t really get on and all, but, well, if you ever need to talk about something that’s bothering you,” she said, her voice near a whisper, “well, you can talk to me. I’m not going to go blabbing about your soulmate or anything, and if, well, something’s wrong, it might help to talk about it.”

“My…” Hermione began, mouth clamping shut as her brain registered the word _soulmate_ . She _knew._ But that meant…

“You’ve been talking in your sleep for a couple of months now,” Parvati replied calmly. “Mostly I just cast a _Quietus_ charm on your four-poster so you don’t wake everyone else up, too. But it’s not like I don’t catch a few things first. Anyways,” she finished, “if you need to talk about it, I already know about it, so it’s not like you’d have to be embarrassed to tell me.” There was a short silence in the dark. “I mean,” Parvati continued, words slow and measured, “I know Harry and Ron are your best friends, but, well...it can’t be easy to talk to them about that, you know?”

Hermione blinked twice before she realized that she had not, in fact, spoken with anyone about her soulmate since her very brief conversation with Professor Lupin more than four months previous. She’d written to her mother once or twice, but she hadn’t really said any more in there except that she’d had more dreams, and wasn’t feeling any closer to finding him. “I…thank you,” she stammered.  
  
“I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine,” Parvati rushed, taking Hermione’s astonished silence as reluctance, or mortification. “But, you know, sometimes it helps...to talk about it.”

There was something in Parvati’s tone that caught Hermione’s attention, a certainty about her that led Hermione to a rather obvious question.  
  
“Have you been doing it, too? Dreaming, I mean?”

The shy little smile that crept over Parvati’s face was all the answer she needed. “Since last year. It was so perplexing, when I started dreaming in French _and_ understanding it, when I’ve never studied it at all.”  
  
Hermione’s mouth made a little ‘o’, as she pieced together the clues into a cohesive whole.  
  
“So, that boy from the Yule Ball last year...what was his name? Sébastien? Is he...”

“No,” Parvati interrupted, “he’s just a friend. But he’s inviting my family to come to visit this summer, to help me find her.”

“That’s…” Hermione stuttered again, “that’s wonderful, Parvati, truly. You’re very lucky to have such good friends.”

“You are too,” Parvati replied honestly. “Even if they’re not the best to talk to about your soulmate.”

“They’re my best friends,” Hermione defended, although it was without much conviction. “It seems weird, you know? Ron would be...awkward. I mean, I’m pretty sure he likes me, and I’m not sure I can tell him about my soulmate at all, not until I know he’s started dreaming about his. Harry would be fine, I think, but he’s got so much to worry about already....”

Parvati nodded her understanding. “I know what you mean. I have to tell Padma, of course, before summer, but I hate to say anything until I know she’s got one, too. It’s not quite the same, but, well…”

“You hate to tread on their feelings,” Hermione said. “What’s worse is that, if I told them about it, they’d want to help me right away, and there’s no way I can just leave to go find him now. Not with…” she trailed off. “It’s too dangerous, and I couldn’t be away for that long.” At Parvati’s quizzical look, Hermione explained. “He sounds like he’s from North America, and the places he sees...well, they’re not in Europe, at least that I can tell.”  
  
“That far away!” Parvati exclaimed. “Oh, Hermione, I had no idea! And I thought having to cross the Channel was an inconvenience!”  
  
Hermione nodded grimly. “And you understand why I can’t go, not yet, not when there could...could be a war,” she finished in a whisper. “Not when Harry needs me. I’ve been,” she murmured, voice falling even more quiet, “trying to contact him. You know, in the dream.”

Parvati’s ears perked up. “Really?” she inquired, genuinely interested. “What have you tried?”

“Talking to him, mostly,” Hermione admitted, tucking a fallen twist back up into her silk headwrap as she leaned back against the headboard of her four-poster. “Just now I tried writing. I was having a dream about taking OWLs, so I wrote on the parchment. I don’t know if he saw it, or remembered, but I had to try.”

Parvati tapped her chin, thinking hard. “You should talk to Professor Trelawney,” she concluded after a few moments. “You _should_ ,” she insisted at Hermione’s scoff. “She knows more about dreams than just about anyone — even more than Professor Firenze.” Hermione blinked, surprised to hear a critical word from Parvati about her current favorite professor. “As wise as he is about the stars,” Parvati explained, “I don’t think he understands much about humans.”  
  
As much as it irked her to think of talking to the former Divination professor (who now spent even more of her time in the North Tower than she had before she was sacked) about anything so important as this. But Parvati had gone out of her way to be kind to her, and Hermione couldn’t deny her own ignorance in regards to soulmates _and_ dreams. She had spent so much of her life focusing on empirical fact, whether scientific or magical, that now she was feeling a definite gap in her education when it came to more subjective experiences. Hermione supposed, at least, that it couldn’t do any harm to ask.  
  
“Yes,” she replied, although that admission, even to herself, stung a bit. “I could do that.”

“Besides,” Parvati said knowingly, with a slightly wicked grin, “you can’t get in trouble for asking _her_ about something unrelated to class, since she’s not a professor anymore.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows at the girl across from her, impressed. “Are you certain you weren’t supposed to be in Slytherin?” she demanded.

“The Sorting Hat did offer,” Parvati admitted, “but I really think that courage and cunning go together best in Gryffindor, don’t you?” With a self-satisfied grin, Parvati got up to go back to her own bed, bidding Hermione sweet dreams as she went.

* * *

It was a full week before Hermione had an opportunity to get away to the North Tower, and it had taken triangulation on the part of quite a few people to give her a decent excuse to be there. Hermione had no idea how she had accomplished it, but she suspected Parvati had been involved.  
  
All she knew was that on a particularly busy Wednesday, with exams looming in three of her five classes that day, Professor Vector had pulled her aside on her way into the classroom. “Miss Granger,” the dour-looking woman asked, “you have Professor McGonagall for Transfiguration next, do you not?”

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione responded uncertainly.  
  
“I have some calculations for her, and I will not have a chance to see her today,” Professor Vector continued, no hint of expression in voice or face. “Would you be so kind as to deliver them to her, when you go?”

Hermione, of course, accepted, although she’d never been asked to do such a thing for a professor before. Perhaps it was because she was a Prefect? All the way through the winding passages to the Transfiguration classroom, Hermione pondered this odd occurrence. When she arrived, Professor McGonagall was already seated at her desk.

Hermione made her way up to the front, and the stern elder witch gave her a curious quirk of an eyebrow. “Professor Vector asked me to give you these,” she stated, laying the bundle of parchments on the desk in front of her.  
  
“Ah, I see,” Professor McGonagall said, giving Hermione a piercing look. “Well, since you are the errand runner today, I should like you to ask Professor Sprout to come find me by the end of day today. I believe you have double Herbology after my class, is that not so?”

“I do,” Hermione confirmed, feeling more bewildered by the minute, “and I should be glad to, Professor." She hesitated a moment, but curiosity got the best of her. "May I ask what this is about?”  
  
The green-robed witch pursed her lips. “Best not, Miss Granger. It does not concern Transfiguration, after all.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but said nothing, instead making her way to her seat. She wasn’t entirely certain, but she thought there had been an odd gleam in Professor McGonagall’s eye. If it hadn’t been McGonagall, she might have called it a hint of mischief.

The day continued on in that same fashion: Professor Sprout asking her to take some calming tea to Hagrid for his nerves — in spite of being just across the field from both his hut and his outdoor classroom. Hagrid, in turn, had a note for Professor Sinistra from Firenze, something about everything being in alignment, which of course Hagrid couldn’t help divulging, laying a finger aside of his nose.

Thoroughly baffled by this point, Hermione went dutifully to the Astronomy Tower after dinner, and it wasn’t until the very end of class, when most of the other students had already filed sleepily out towards their dormitories, that she had an opportunity to give the note to Professor Sinistra.

“Ah,” the professor sighed, “I was wondering when I would be able to consult with our resident centaur again. Thank you, my dear, for saving me the trouble.” She then proceeded to sit down at her desk, open the note and read it, while Hermione stood there, half expecting another errand.  
  
She had nearly decided just to head back to Gryffindor Tower, when Professor Sinistra folded the small note and laid it down in front of her. “Miss Granger,” she began, in a perfunctory tone, as if she had fully expected Hermione to stay until dismissed, “would you be so kind as to show this note to Sybill Trelawney, as well? I believe it may be of interest to her.” Then the usually solemn professor caught her eye, and _winked_.

Hermione looked at the tall, brown-skinned witch as though she had suddenly sprouted two new heads. This woman had been one of her most challenging professors, rarely displaying anything but absolute solemnity, but the wink had made her look young. Which, Hermione supposed, she was. When she wasn't being stern, she looked to be of an age with Ron’s brother Bill, if she’d had to guess.  
  
Professor Sinistra’s smile was slow, but quite pointed. “Yes, Miss Granger,” she said, as though Hermione's every thought had been written across her face, “it does not do to be as rambunctious as the students, when one is a professor. But I believe curfew will be enforced soon, and even a Prefect such as yourself should not be too eager to be out too late.”

“Um...yes, of course. Professor,” she added hastily, grabbing the note and closing it in her hand. “Thank you!” she called breathlessly as she sped down the stair on her increasingly contrived errand.  
  
She reached the North Tower mercifully without incident, but when she approached the door, she hesitated. It was late, she reasoned, and part of her hated to bother the woman. But Sinistra’s parting words reminded her she was not only on an errand, but on a schedule as well. Raising her hand to knock, she suddenly wished she hadn’t come. Her knuckles fell less forcefully on the door than she’d intended, but a reedy voice issued from within, nevertheless.  
  
“Yes,” it said, “just a moment.”

A pair of thick, round spectacles peeped out from behind the door at Hermione, the eyes behind them blinking slowly once, twice, before the door opened more fully, to reveal the former Divination professor. Sybill Trelawney looked even more vague and disorderly than usual, wearing several lacy shawls around her shoulders, all of which were more or less askew, with the tip of one of the middle layers dragging behind her on the floor. “Miss Granger?” she said inquiringly, before ushering her inside. “Do come in,” she said, somewhat belatedly as the door shut behind them both.

What had once been the Divination classroom was now a bit of a jumble — part tea room, part library, part junk heap. Most of the tables that had lined walls were shoved to one side, and held mostly scraps of parchment and candle ends. Trelawney led her over to a table on the opposite side of the room from most of the clutter, next to the cabinet full of teacups. “Now, my dear,” she said, eyeing Hermione with something between suspicion and curiosity, “what brings you here at this hour?”  
  
Her pride was screaming at her to just hand over the note and bolt, but it seemed like someone (and perhaps many someones) had gone to a lot of trouble to get her here. Taking a deep breath, Hermione folded her hands in her lap, and stared at the table. “Dreams,” was all she managed to say.  
  
The look of utter shock on Sybill Trelawney’s face was priceless, if Hermione had only looked up to see it. “Well...well,” she stuttered, rising from her chair with a clatter, hands instantly reaching for her teapot. “I, ah yes…I...let’s… I’ll just put the kettle on.”  
  
“I don’t know if I can stay that long, Professor,” Hermione apologized, then her hands sprang to cover her mouth. Trelawney stopped short at the word, teakettle already halfway to the hob. With a small sigh, she let the kettle down the rest of the way, and with a flick of her wand, the fire under the hob roared to life.

“That’s…very kind of you, dear,” Trelawney replied wearily, “although I may no longer claim that particular honor. No,” she continued, when Hermione started to argue, “I do not, and may never again. But you are in haste, you say, and have come to ask me about dreams.” She gave Hermione a hesitant, watery smile. “How may I help?”  
  
“I’m having soulmate dreams,” Hermione began, somewhat cautiously. “My soulmate...well, there are two problems, actually. Well, one’s not important. But he’s far away, and I need to speak to him. I’ve been trying, when I notice he’s in the dream with me too, and I just… I don’t know if I’m getting through,” she finished in a rush.

When Hermione looked up again, Trelawney was pulling gently at her lip in thought. “How have you been talking to this, er, person?” she asked.

“Well,” Hermione considered, “talking, mostly. And writing. I have lots of dreams about exams,” she clarified, at the older woman’s puzzled expression.

“Oh, no, my dear, that will never work,” Trelawney pronounced at once. “To communicate in dreams is to communicate in the _Beyond_ . One cannot simply walk and talk in the realm of the spirit!” As Trelawney warmed to her topic, she began to sound much more like she had in Hermione’s first (and only) Divination lesson. “No, no. When one has a soulmate, one is connected to them at the most intimate level, the _spiritual_. You must, in a sense, release a part of yourself, something that is who you are at your very core.”

Hermione did her best to school the confusion from her face, but she could not hide the yawn that came upon her. Trelawney threw a quick glance at the clock on the mantelpiece, and shook her head. “It’s gone midnight, my dear, so you’d best be off. You mustn’t get detention on my account.”

“No, of course not,” Hermione replied, standing abruptly. She gathered her books up again and made her way quickly to the door. With her hand on the doorknob, she stopped. “I will think about what you said,” she said slowly, turning her face back towards the erstwhile professor. “Thank you.”

Behind Trelawney’s thick spectacles, her watery blue eyes teared up once again. “You are...quite welcome, my dear,” she said, chin quavering a bit as she spoke.

In the silence that followed, something passed between the two of them. It wasn’t quite an understanding, but a recognition, perhaps — or a truce. Uncertain what else to do, Hermione started to let herself out.  
  
“I believe the house elves know another way up here, if you should ever require it,” Sybill said in a rush. “You… you would be welcome.”  
  
Hermione, embarrassed and slightly ashamed of herself, nodded acceptance of the offer, and the olive branch it represented. “I will remember,” she said, ducking out of the door and down the stairs once again.


	10. Runnin' Down a Dream

**June 1996**

Dean was startled awake by a gentle shake to his shoulder. "We will be landing soon, hon, so you need to buckle back up." Ignoring the roiling in his stomach, Dean nodded hazily, and moved enough so that the flight attendant knew he'd gotten the message. The feeling that came to him as he pushed himself out of the foggy Dramamine-induced haze cut through even the residual terror of being in the air: _Holy shit, I really did it._

The itch had been on him since that day in January, when he'd known that he had to go find his soulmate, to make sure she wasn't in danger. He had dreamt constantly, and both his dreams and hers had been filled with her peril. Whatever was going on with her was getting worse, and fast. All the trouble had come to a head in April, when his soulmate's dreams had begun to fill with panicked visions of the frog-woman again, and some Merlin-looking dude who she'd been turning to for help had just given her a helpless shrug before fading from sight.

That had been the same week they'd hunted down a werewolf. They'd been headed back to Bobby's after a little weekend travel, just the three of them, which Dean had thought was going to be some kind of fun thing, but it turns out it was some kind of training mission his dad had cooked up for him. Dean had shot the werewolf with a silver-tipped arrow, of all things, with Sam right there in the car. He and his dad had dragged the thing off and burned the carcass in the woods, and that was when he'd seen it: the look on his dad's face, like Dean had just completed some kind of initiation, and the intensity in his father's eyes had been more than enough for Dean to realize exactly what John Winchester expected of him.

They hadn't said anything, but Dean had fixed his father with a stare full of resolution, of the importance of his mission, and of unshakeable dedication to the cause. John's face had been full of pride then, and he clapped Dean on the shoulder as they made their way back to the car.

Thing was, Dean had not been thinking about hunting at the time. Telling his father that particular detail was never going to happen, that was for damned sure.

Hunting was important, sure. And he was probably going to keep doing it, since he knew how and was pretty good at it already. But some things were just more important than hunting.

Like family.

Thing is, he'd listened to lectures about "take care of Sammy, protect your brother at all costs" from his dad for years, and had learned those lessons well, too. If someone was in trouble, you helped them. If Sammy was in trouble, you made sure he was okay _first_.

And then he'd watched his dad chase after a werewolf _with his kid brother in the car_. Sammy, who knew lots about the lore now, but didn't know how to fight yet. Sure, Dean had been fighting monsters since he was eleven, but that was different. His dad had taught him to shoot when he was like, six. He'd been fighting - in school, if nothing else - for almost a decade now. Sammy was a book geek, not a scrapper like him. You just didn't throw an inexperienced kid like that into the middle of a hunt.

Especially not his brother. Not _family_.

His reasoning, after that, felt a little shaky, until he thought about Hermione. He hadn't realized it until that hunt, but he had begun to feel as protective of her as he did of this brother, even if it was in a different way. He hadn't even met her, not in person, but he already knew so much about her - how much she loved her friends, her fierce intelligence, her relentless courage. Hell, if she thought even half as well of him as he did of her, Dean would consider himself the luckiest guy in the world.

There was still the little niggling thought, the one that ate at him in the still hours of the early morning, whenever another dream had woken him up at 2 a.m., that he couldn't possibly be good enough for a girl like her. Dean knew a bit about not measuring up, and in some of those quiet moments he wondered if he should even look for her, if he there was anything he could really offer her, besides an introduction to the hunting life.

That thought struck like a knife in his gut. He couldn't. There was no way he could expose Hermione to the horrors that had haunted his entire life.

But he couldn't lie to her, either. There had always been something holding him back from friendships with kids at school, and for a long time, Dean had wondered what it was. He'd tried to be funny, and cool, and had even let himself be kind of dorky sometimes with Robin, but of all the things in his life, hunting had been the one and only constant. Not being able to talk about that, without people thinking he was crazy or worse, well...he'd never met anyone he could trust enough to risk that.

But if Hermione was his soulmate, there was no way he could keep that from her. He was supposed to be close to her, right? If he went around hiding things from her, she'd figure it out, eventually. He might get away with it for a while, but just thinking about getting caught made him physically ill.

He hadn't been able to see a way out of it...unless. _Unless he gave up hunting_. Guilt gnawed at him for even thinking it, but once it had gotten a hold of his brain, Dean hadn't been able to shake the thought loose.

So he'd been living in a kind of emotional limbo, trying to act like his dad expected until he could figure out what to do.

Then two things happened, almost simultaneously.

It had been a pretty lazy afternoon. Dean and Sam had been parked in South Dakota with Bobby for more than a month, and it was nearly the end of school. They were down to the last week or so, and they were either reviewing for exams, or watching movies in class. They'd finished English review the day before, so the teacher had gotten a TV/VCR from the AV room and was showing them "Romeo and Juliet."

He'd tried to pay attention. He really had. LIke, they'd read the thing in class already, so it's not like he didn't know what was going to happen. But as he watched, the flow of the dialogue, the lilting British accents carried him away to daydreams about Hermione. He stopped watching, closing his eyes to listen. And then he fell asleep.

He dreamt he was climbing up a tree like that Romeo cat had done, except instead of dropping over a wall into a private backyard, he plopped down into a huge lawn in front of a castle. It was a weird-looking building, with turrets sticking up all over the place. If there was a style to it, Dean didn't know what it was. It looked more like someone had cobbled together three or four of those building kits all at one time, but had lost the plans and decided to make one big castle out of all the pieces.

It was night, and very few lights were on in the place. There was a warm glow coming from a hut off to his right, and there were long, low buildings between him and the castle itself. He stared up at it, wondering how he was going to get in, and even then, where he was going to go. Glancing up at the two highest towers, he caught a hint of something shining behind one of the closed windows on the very top floor.

As he stared, the light grew brighter, a silvery shimmer that seemed to be flowing or weaving its way out, as it came through the shutters and began to work its way down the sheer rock wall. Dean blinked in amazement as it came into focus: it was a glowing silver creature, and it seemed to be swimming through the air. It made its gradual way down to the ground, and then its movement changed, turning into a clumsy kind of lope, like something that wasn't used to walking.

It was coming straight for him.

Involuntarily, Dean reached for his silver knife, but it wasn't there, and neither was his hip flask. In stunned silence he watched as the creature approached, completely uncertain whether to fight or flee. He closed his eyes and took a long, steadying breath.

When he opened them again, the bright creature was standing before him, perched up on its hind legs, flapping one clawed paw to get his attention.

It was an otter. Or, like, the ghost of an otter. It was glimmering softly in the dim, overcast night, and was nearly transparent.

"What…" Dean trailed off, too surprised for any kind of complete response.

"Can you hear me?" came a voice, from the direction of the otter-ghost.

"What!?" Dean exclaimed, startled. "How did you…?"

"I don't have much time," the voice continued, "so please listen. My name is Hermione, and I think you might be my soulmate. I know your name is Dean, and your brother is Sam. I can't tell you where I am, but I needed to reach you. There's...there's a war brewing, and I don't think I can stop it. I just...I wanted to make sure you were alright, and to tell you I'm alright." The ghost-thing was starting to fade, taking the voice with it. "Really, I am. I don't know when I'll be able to come find you, but I will. I promise I will find you..."

And with that, the voice and otter disappeared, leaving him standing on the empty lawn.

Dean belatedly reached out a hand, as if to call the creature back, but suddenly he was being shaken awake by his English teacher, whose face was creased with a scowl. "Sorry, Mrs. Washington," he mumbled, as soon as he was out of the dream enough to speak again. He'd thrown his books back in his backpack, and stalked out into the hall, just as the last of the other students cleared the building for the day.

And then the second thing happened.

Sam was waiting for him at the front doors of the high school, hopping from foot to foot in agitation. Dean, still shaking the sleep off himself, gave his little brother a bleary glare of the 'can't it wait?' variety. Sam, clearly not taking the hint, bombarded his brother with a never-ending flow of words that Dean could not even begin to take in right then.

"Whoa," he said, pulling Sam back at arm's length. "Slow down, Sammy. What's going on?"

" _I found her,_ " Sam stated emphatically, irritation bleeding through his obvious excitement. "Or, well, I found her parents. Dean, _I know where she lives_."

Dean frowned in confusion. "What...who? Where _who_ lives?"

" _Hermione_ ," Sam scoffed.

That day had turned the tide. All of Dean's trepidation about finding Hermione had been summarily shoved to the side, and a plot had begun to form in his mind. He'd been squirreling away money here and there, enough to keep himself fed for two, maybe three days without raising suspicion. All he had to do was scam a credit card without his dad knowing about it, so he could buy a ticket. That, and get a passport. Have it sent to the Bobby's PO Box, since only he and Sam ever checked it for him. All he needed was a few days away from his dad.

Then he lit on a brilliant idea: He was seventeen already, and this summer would be ten years since he'd started to learn about hunting. It was time, really, for him to prove himself, to try and do this stuff on his own. He had his driver's license, so he could just borrow a car from Bobby, check in every few days, and ask other hunters for help, if he got into anything too big to tackle alone. He'd wracked his brains, but it was the only plan he had been able to come up with.

A sliver of him hated lying about it, even to his dad, but there was nothing else that John Winchester would accept at face value, and Dean knew it. He'd ask for a couple of weeks, go on a hunt or two, report in, and then go searching for the next one. It would just take a few days to get to London, find Hermione's house, and get back, easy.

He tried really hard not to think about what might happen when they did meet.

As the plane touched down at Gatwick, he was still trying not to think about it.

His dad had bought it—hook, line and sinker. He'd given Dean that quietly proud half-smile of his, patted him on the shoulder, and looked him straight in the eye. "Sounds like you've thought of everything, son," he'd said, the closest to actual praise that Dean could remember hearing in a while. "Borrow a car from Bobby, and you can go."

Bobby had grudgingly loaned him a Dodge Dart he'd recently rebuilt. It still had the original olive green paint with a few rust spots, but it ran well enough, and managed to get halfway decent gas mileage, so Dean had said thanks and given the gruff older man a firm handshake. There had been a suspicious glint in Bobby's eye, but he had just muttered his usual "Don't do anything stupid, ya idjit" and watched him go.

In the week or so since then, Dean had found a pretty basic haunting case to work, standard salt-and-burn, and called it good enough. He drove east after that, making for Georgia for his flight out of the country. Atlanta was a nice, busy place to fly out of, and a good spot to leave the car where not much interesting ought to happen to it. He'd stashed most of his weapons in a cabin up in the Smokies, taking only his silver-bladed pocket knife and a bottle of holy water. Those would be easy enough to get through security in his bag, Sam had assured him, and damn if the kid hadn't been right.

And now, in the weirdest episode of his life to date, Dean Winchester was stepping off an airplane in _London Freaking England._

Shouldering his rather beaten backpack, he strolled through the airport, stopping at the currency exchange to turn a collection of dollar bills into British pounds. It wasn't as much as he'd hoped, but it would get him through his flight home, he was sure. The greying woman at the information desk gave him a map of the London Underground and general directions to the neighborhood he was headed to, even though she looked down her nose a bit at him. Dean just met her gaze with a pleasant smile and said thank you, mentally shrugging it off. He knew he came off like some kind of punk, his dad had told him that often enough.

It was an hour by train into the city proper, and Dean wandered around the train station for a moment, getting his bearings. It was a nice evening so far, still decently sunny if a bit cool, and he was glad Sam had warned him not to expect shorts weather, even if it was technically summer already. He buttoned the bottom two buttons on his jean jacket and loped his way through the streets, searching for the destination his little brother had scrawled onto a scrap of notebook paper for him more than a month previous.

His feet eventually took him to a small back street full of sedate row homes of three stories each, with short flights of steps leading up to colorful doors. It was approaching dusk by the time he arrived, and he had to squint to see some of the house numbers, but with a little persistence, he found it.

The door matching the address in his pocket was a deep green, and a light was coming through the front window from the back of the house. As he trod on the first step, his hunting instincts kicked in and he froze, senses alert. Dean looked around for any sign of danger, but everything seemed completely normal. There was a family a few houses down who was coming home from somewhere. Maybe they had shut a car door. Either way, nothing showed itself, so Dean put his knife back in his pocket, shook off the creeped-out feeling, climbed the stairs and rang the bell.

A relatively tall, dark-skinned black woman opened the door. Her hair was bound up with a narrow scarf, which brought the tight curls into a large bunch, almost like a sheaf of wheat. She had on comfortable-looking clothes, like a sweatsuit but a really nice one, without the elastic at the cuffs, with new sneakers that matched. It was a full beat before she asked, "May I help you?", attitude shifting from disappointed surprise to polite interest.

"Um, hi," Dean began, clearing his throat, suddenly nervous. "Does...does Hermione live here?"

The woman tilted her head, examining him for a moment. "And who are you, young man?"

"Oh, uh, sorry," he stammered, embarrassed. "Yeah, I'm Dean...Dean Winchester, ma'am. I'm...well, I'm kind of a friend of hers."

An expertly arched eyebrow met his abashed expression, and Dean blushed, hard. "Well," he said, taking a large steadying breath, "I think I might be her soulmate."

Both eyebrows raised this time, and the head-tilt was back. "I see," she said, giving him the once-over again. Dean grinned sheepishly, and the woman's demeanor changed again. She nodded once, then gave him a warm smile and a wink. "Well, if that is the case, you'd best come in," she said, before ushering him inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life happened, and I only updated once per fic last month! Sorry, y'all, but these things do happen. I'm resetting now though, so I will hopefully have the next chapter up by mid-May!
> 
> My utmost thanks to everyone who reads, leaves kudos or comments - every time I get an email notification, it makes me smile.
> 
> Come talk to me at unified-multiversal-theory on Tumblr, any time!


	11. Wide Awake in Dreamland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione spies a stranger being let into her parents' home; the Doctors Granger find out a bit more about this strange young man.

From the deeper shadows across the street from her parents' house, Hermione watched. She'd been waiting a while, making certain she hadn't been followed, even after Tonks had cast a _Hominem revelio_ over the general vicinity. Minutes later, the young Auror had retreated a few doors down, satisfied that her charge was safe. In that moment, an unfamiliar figure started up the street towards them, head turning repeatedly right, then left, then right again, searching for something.

Backlit by both the fading sunlight and the street lamps that were beginning to flicker on, his face was thrown into nearly impenetrable shadow. The figure was obviously male: tall and lean, and he moved with a rolling kind of saunter, reminding Hermione vaguely of a cowboy movie she'd seen once, years ago, a long shadow stretching out in front of him. She observed him silently, tucking herself even further back into the darkness of the alley between houses, nearly crouching down to wait for him to pass.

He didn't pass. Instead, his steps slowed, coming to a stop directly in front of her parents' front door. Again he hesitated, leaning this way and that, checking the house numbers to either side. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, Hermione caught Tonks's eye, one house closer than she'd been the last time Hermione had looked. Good, she thought, at least I won't be alone.  
  
When she looked back, the guy was still there, this time pacing up and down the pavement in front of the stair leading to the front door. Suddenly he stopped, holding himself perfectly still, alert and listening. For a terrifying moment, Hermione held her breath, certain he'd detected her.  
  
Soon enough, though, he shook his head and turned back to the door in front of him. Something seemed to resolve him to action, because this time he ascended the stairs with confidence, and rang the bell.  
  
The disappointment that flashed across her mother's face upon opening the door gave Hermione's heart a little twist, sadness to accompany the anxiety over this stranger showing up at her own home at virtually the same moment as she. The coincidence was uncanny, and trod on each and every frayed nerve.  
He was talking to her mother now, in a low rumble that didn't quite project across the street behind him. When he stopped, he rubbed the back of his neck, and for the longest moment, all was silence. Maybe he's lost, Hermione's thoughts speculated wildly. Asking directions back to the main road or something. Mum will tell him, and point back the way he came, and I can go home.  
  
Hermione's mother did not point. Instead, she cocked her head in that considering look that her daughter knew only too well: she was analyzing a story for truth. Hermione prayed against all hope that this man wasn't a Death Eater in disguise, that her mother wouldn't be fooled, or cursed, or killed where she stood. Hermione's wand was suddenly in her hand, the girl ready to spring to her mother's defense at the first sign of distress, the Statute of Secrecy be damned.  
  
Instead, Hermione watched in amazement as her mother smiled that knowing little half-smile of hers and ushered this complete stranger into the house.  
A soft touch to her shoulder startled Hermione. Tonks had come back. "Who's that?" she whispered to Hermione, gesturing towards the door as it closed.  
"No idea," Hermione said, just as softly, "but I'm definitely going to find out."

* * *

 

The china cup rattled again as the strange young man took another judicious sip of his tea. The poor child was clearly unused to it: he winced every time he set the cup back in its saucer. The first time it had happened, she'd been briefly relieved that her husband had not pulled down the best china for their daughter's homecoming, but by some miracle, the cup wasn't even chipped.  
  
Dean's mouth twitched, too, every time he took a drink. He had initially turned down both milk and sugar, and despite not enjoying the tea without them, neither abandoned the drink nor changed his mind against drinking it "black".  
  
This was a stubbornness eerily reminiscent of her daughter's.  
  
Moments after Dr. Helene Granger had ushered Dean into the house, her husband had appeared with the tea. His puzzled disappointment at seeing someone other than their daughter had doubtless mirrored her own expression when she'd met Dean at the door. "Helene," he had said haltingly, "what…?"  
Now that their unexpected visitor was inside the house, Helene was getting a better look at him. She had thought him older, because of his voice, but there had been something in the way he held himself that had made her doubt that first impression. In the better lighting of the sitting room, it was plain to see he was scarcely more than a boy, perhaps in his late teens. A bit of gangliness from a previous growth spurt was still on him, though he had grown past the awkward stage of it already. His sandy blonde hair was cut quite short, almost military style, and despite the beginnings of a sharp chin, his face was still quite pretty, as a child's.  
  
"I suppose we should do some introductions," she said, giving their visitor a somewhat pointed look. Helene resisted the urge to smile at the boy's instant discomfiture.  
  
"Um, yeah," he said eventually, rubbing the back of his neck again, a somewhat endearing nervous gesture. "Mr. Granger, Mrs. Granger," he began, nodding at each of them in turn, "I'm Dean Winchester. I...well, I've been dreaming about your daughter, I think. Yeah. Her name is Hermione, and well, I had to come meet her, if I could."  
  
"Well, Dean," she replied, still stifling the desire to smile at him, "My name is Helene, and this is Krishan. We're Hermione's parents, as you may have guessed."  
  
"Hermione isn't here yet," Krishan explained, "but we are expecting her any moment. Why don't we get to know each other a bit, before she does?"  
If anything, this friendly candor made the boy even more nervous. "Um," he hesitated, his face losing a touch of its color. "Well, Sammy-my brother Sam, he looked up your address-he said you're doctors or something?"  
  
"Dentists, actually," Krishan clarified, as the boy nodded as if remembering. "We have a practice in Shepherds Bush. What do your parents do, Dean?"  
He was much more ready with an answer this time. "My dad's a mechanic," he said simply. "My mom...she died when I was a kid. House fire. My dad...sent me out with my brother Sam, he was just a baby. He...couldn't save Mom, though."  
  
"How awful," Krishan gasped, a sorrowful frown creasing his forehead.  
  
"And your brother so young," Helene said. "How much difference in age is there between the two of you?"  
  
"Almost four and a half years," Dean replied, a fond smile creeping across his face.  
  
"You two get on, then?" Helene supplied.  
  
Dean nodded enthusiastically. "I know a lot of people don't always get along with their siblings, but Sammy's a great kid. And wicked smart! I told you he helped me find you, right? Not only that, but he practically figured out I was having soulmate dreams even before I did. I didn't know anything about this sort of thing, right? Neither did Sammy, but once I told him, he made himself an expert on them, like, the very next day."  
  
The young man paused, clearly ready for some appreciative noises from his audience. Krishan and Helene promptly supplied them, although Helene's expression remained pensive. She didn't have to do the maths to realize just how young Dean had been when his mother died, nor did she miss the almost parental nature of his regard for Sam. As Dean continued to extol the virtues of his younger brother, a picture of their life emerged in her mind out of the minutiae, the things left unsaid. Dean's brilliant little brother excelling in school despite of being moved around a lot, both boys earning praise from the gruff but beloved "uncle" Bobby, the conspicuous absence of their father in every story that was even remotely positive in tone. The only mention of the man had been the merest allusion, a glancing comment in a story in which the ingenious Sam had saved Dean from getting in trouble "at home".  
  
She didn't have to be a psychologist to understand what that meant.  
  
Her husband caught her eye during the young man's monologue more than once, the creases around his eyes deepening with every humorous tale. This young man had taken a huge risk, crossing a literal ocean just for the chance to meet their daughter, and if she were inclined to gamble, Helene would have wagered a tidy sum that the boy's father had no idea where he was. There was a manic edge to the stories, and while Dean's adoration of his brother was genuine, Helene discerned nervousness, perhaps even guilt in the young man's otherwise buoyant demeanor. What the cause of it was, she could do no more than speculate at present. Every hypothesis that presented itself, however, was less encouraging that the last.  
  
Dean's flow of speech was interrupted by the chiming of the mantelpiece clock striking nine. It was now long past a reasonable time for Hermione to arrive, if everything had gone according to plan. Uncertain how much they could say in front of Dean, the Grangers, by unspoken mutual decision, resumed the conversation as best they could.  
  
Dean, however, was beginning to get nervous. He poured another cup of tea for himself, obviously for something to do, considering how little he'd enjoyed the first. He made to take a sip, then abruptly put the cup down again in favor of flipping a spoon back and forth in his fingers. Suddenly he stopped, put the spoon down, and forced himself to stop the jittery movements.  
  
"I can't think what's keeping her," Krishan said apologetically, as the young man fought valiantly to quash another bout of fidgeting. "We hadn't a definite time, but I would have expected her to be home by now." The worry that something had happened to her on the way remained unspoken.  
This didn't seem to matter, however. Dean picked up their concern immediately. "What's wrong?" he asked, body tensed defensively, hand shooting to his back pocket. "Is she in trouble? Do we need to go look for her?"  
  
Again, Helene and her husband exchanged a look. "She has a friend bringing her home," she said in an effort to placate the boy. "She won't be alone." At this, Dean relaxed a little, although his hand moved only slowly away from his back pocket. Briefly, Helene wondered if he had a wand hidden there.  
With practiced ease, Helene steered the conversation back to the mundanities of life: the dental practice the Doctors Granger operated, the move into the neighborhood just before Hermione had been born, visiting family in Delhi and Paris. Despite leaning back into the sofa, Dean still seemed to be on alert. Helene had been hoping it was simply nerves, that the delay in Hermione's promised arrival was simply becoming difficult to bear.  
  
Then Dean froze, holding up a hand at them. "Is there anyone else in the house?" he whispered.  
  
Mutely, they both shook their heads. Dean sat with his head tilted to one side, listening intently. Krishan's eyebrows had disappeared under the thick hatch of his black hair, and Helene herself was straining to hear anything. There was no sound from the front door.  
  
Dean turned, slowly rising from his seat into a half crouch, tensed to spring. His hand was in his back pocket again when they heard it: a footstep in the hall, coming from the back of the house.  
  
For one strained moment, no one breathed. Then, in a whirl of movement, Dean swiveled around with the speed of an attacking viper, a small silver knife appearing in his hand. "Who are you?" he demanded of the dark hallway. "Show yourself!"  
  
Out of the shadows stepped a figure, wand leveled directly at Dean, the ends of her dark hair standing out straight and crackling. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: GUESS WHO!
> 
> I did not expect this chapter to take so very long, but life got in the way and work required my attention, and all other similar things that may be the hallmark of summers to come for quite a while. This has been my first summer as a freelancer, and also with a school-age child at home for most of the summer. It has been busy and quite lacking in alone time for writing!
> 
> Summer's end is, however, a mere three weeks away, and I hope to return to a more regular update schedule soon. I will still be aiming for one chapter every two weeks, I think, but I would also like to have some buffer built up by next summer (no matter what I'm writing by then), so I will make no concrete plans or promises just yet. 
> 
> I can't begin to express how very happy I am with the reception of this story. I have been writing fanfiction for more than three years now, and I was quite used to getting only one or two notifications per chapter for the longest while. Apparently, writing a soulmate AU is good for web traffic! I'm having quite a lot of fun with this story still, and your page views, kudos, and comments all tell me that you are having fun with it, too.
> 
> Although I most definitely have a beta, I want to let you all know that spelling, punctuation and grammar comments are always quite welcome, as are speculations and questions about what will happen next. I'm writing this story as I go, so, who knows? Your comments could end up influencing the story! 
> 
> Thank you, again, for reading and leaving kudos/comments on this little tale, even though I am less than regular with updates and entirely too fond of cliffhangers. I appreciate every single one of you.
> 
> ~Jo


	12. You Tell Me Your Dreams, I Will Tell You Mine

Whatever Dean had been expecting, this wasn’t it.

Ever since he’d begun the walk up the Grangers’ street, Dean had been watchful. He’d gotten the sensation of something swooping overhead, like a bird or a bat, but when he’d looked up, there had been nothing. Then, on the doorstep of the house, his senses had alerted him again. Someone—or something—had been watching him outside.

The rest of the evening had been fine until, in the middle of one of Mr. Granger’s stories, Dean had caught something at the back of his hearing that had him on edge. On instinct, he’d turned to face it, hovering protectively over the two adults behind him. When it had failed to appear, Dean had issued the challenge.

It had been a stupid move, but there was no way he was going to send Hermione’s parents into another part of the house when he had no idea what he was up against. Better to get the thing out in the open where he could see what he was dealing with.

And now he was staring into the face of the most magnificent woman he’d ever seen.

She was young, and kind of awkward looking for the most part, but none of that registered in Dean’s brain until much, much later. She radiated so much power, everything mundane about her was completely overshadowed by it. Her eyes flashed with a fire beyond anger, sparking amber in their depths. The twists in her hair were standing on end, uncoiling themselves like snakes, or tangled vines in an invisible wind. She leveled some kind of carved stick at him, which jogged his memory about something but he couldn’t put a finger on it. It wasn’t strong or sharp enough to be a stake, and all the unseen energy crackling around her seemed to be flowing towards it.

She was staring at the silver knife in his hand. _Shit_ , Dean thought. _That is not a good sign._ Hardly daring to move a muscle, Dean locked eyes with her. “Okay,” he said, hunting bravado taking over, “I don’t know what you are, but I’m going to need you to put that stick down.”

Instead of backing down as Dean had maybe hoped, she narrowed her eyes even more. “Why do you have that knife?” she demanded.

“Why are you pointing that stick at me?” Dean countered automatically.

If he’d been hoping for some snarky banter, Dean was disappointed. “I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing in my house, but I will not ask you again: _Why do you have that knife?_ ”

_My house._ The words punched through to Dean’s brain. Stunned, he looked down at his hand, staring in shock at the small, lethally sharp blade he was wielding. _Holy shit,_ his mind screamed, _I’m threatening my soulmate at knifepoint._

Dean froze in position, unwilling to make any sudden moves. Whatever she was holding, it was clearly dangerous. He could feel Hermione’s parents behind him, shifting uncomfortably. When another figure came to stand behind Hermione, Dean’s self-preservation finally kicked in, and he made a show of lowering his weapon, laying it down on the coffee table behind him.

Raising his hands in surrender, Dean looked her straight in the face, and said the first thing that came to his mind: “I had to make sure you were okay.”

The change wrought on her face was instantaneous, and the building power dissipated completely. As her expression lightened to one of utter shock, she began to look helplessly between him and her parents and back again. After a series of inarticulate syllables issued from her daughter, Mrs. Granger swiftly steered the young woman over to the chair opposite him, and a pair of hands swiveled him back around to the sofa.

“Hermione,” Mrs. Granger was saying, “this is Dean. He’s come rather a long way to see you. Perhaps we ought to have some tea and talk to each other, before things come to blows.”

“You haven’t introduced us to your friend here, either,” Mr. Granger said from directly behind Dean. Hermione, apparently still too dumbfounded to speak, waved her companion in.

A brown-haired woman with a turned-up nose and a broad grin stepped in from the darkened hallway. “Wotcher,” she beamed, though Dean had no idea what that was supposed to mean. “You can call me Tonks. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, Dean.”

“Kris and Helene, please,” Krishan replied, shaking the woman’s hand. “Thank you for seeing Hermione home. Can we interest you in some supper?”

The cheerful young woman shook her head emphatically. “Expecting tea myself, as soon as I get back. Besides, you have your hands quite full already, I think.” She made a flippant half-salute and pointed off towards the front door. “I’ll just see myself out. This way, yeah? See ya, Hermione!” and just like that, she was gone.

In that short interval, Hermione’s mother had brought in more tea from the kitchen, on a tray with a couple of covered dishes, plates and silverware. “We’ll have ours in the kitchen, dear,” she said, giving Hermione a quick kiss on the forehead while she poured cups for the both of them, leaving both on the tray on the coffee table between. “I’m sure you have much to discuss.”

Quickly and quietly, the doctors Granger departed, leaving the two of them together. As if on autopilot, Hermione was stirring milk and sugar into her tea, without once taking her eyes off of Dean. She was no longer staring daggers now, but examining him, like she was trying to solve a puzzle. He shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, finally ladling two heaping spoons of sugar to his cup simply for something to do.

“Um, hi,” Dean began, when the silence stretched out longer than he could stand.

“I’m trying to decide,” she said, without prelude, “whether you’re an idiot or just mad.”

“Excuse me?” Dean bristled, hackles immediately back up.

“The dream,” she explained, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. “I told you there was going to be a war, and yet here you are. Who makes a transatlantic flight into a potential war zone because of something they heard in a dream?”

If it were possible, Dean was even more insulted. “Wait, what? What kind of person finds out their soulmate is in trouble and doesn’t go to at least make sure they’re _okay!?_ ”

“But you barely know me!” she exclaimed, setting her tea down with a loud clatter. “What possible reason could you have for coming all this way?”

It was Dean’s turn to stare, mouth agape. The electric charge was back in the air, and God help him, he was loving it. “What...what reason?” he stammered, once his brain had rebooted itself. “You’re my soulmate, right? And after all those super weird dreams I...you had? I thought for a while you were just really freaking out about school or something, but then that otter-ghost-thing started talking about a war, and I don’t know how, but I knew it was the truth, and that you were in trouble. I don’t need any more reason than that!”

At this, Hermione’s mouth snapped shut, and her expression turned pensive. Dean was still seething defensively, ready for another attack, but it never came. Instead, Hermione was intently examining her fingernails, the once-electric halo of her hair came floating back down to cover her face. She looked smaller now, and more scared than angry, although neither emotion overshadowed the look of intense concentration that had returned to her face. “Okay,” she began tentatively, peeking out from under the heavy fall of her hair. “Could we begin again, perhaps?” she hazarded, voice scarcely above a whisper. “I think...I think there might be an easier place to start than shouting at each other,” she said, gathering confidence.

The surge of adrenaline was still on him, and Hermione’s sudden change in demeanor left Dean blinking, but, slowly, he managed to nod his head. “I...yeah,” he said haltingly. “That would be, um, good...yeah.” He shook his head as if to chase away the previous mood, and sat up a bit straighter on the sofa. He still wasn’t completely relaxed, but, after all, this is what he had come here for.

“Thanks,” Hermione began, chewing on her bottom lip with a hint of nervousness. “Um, well...I don’t really know how this is supposed to go, actually,” she stammered, confidence evaporating as she approached the subject. “I didn’t even believe in soulmates until...well, until last summer.”

“I didn’t either!” Dean exclaimed, almost jubilantly. “Like, I’d heard of all that garbage they put on television, but I thought that was just a load of crap, until my dad told me otherwise.”

“Ron’s mum had to tell me!” Hermione replied, just as excitedly. “I didn’t know...well, I thought that sort of thing didn’t happen to m...um, ordinary people. It was just like a fairy tale, nothing that could possibly be real!” She quieted a moment, and a solemnity settled into her features.

“Your dreams, Dean,” she began again, and the little knot of fear that had nearly evaporated suddenly returned, quadrupled in size and sank like a rock into the pit of his stomach. “They’re so…they’re so violent.”

“Yeah, um,” Dean said by way of apology. “About that. I, um, well...I have to tell you something.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering how to begin. “This is gonna sound crazy, but please, Hermione,” he pleaded, looking her directly in the eye, “please just let me finish, before you get mad at me or throw me out.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, but she nodded her assent. “Okay,” she said, with an odd little hitch in her voice that Dean couldn’t quite identify, “I can do that.”

“Okay,” Dean said, and an uncomfortable smile tugged at his lips. “My mom died when I was a little kid, and Sammy was just a baby. She...she was killed...by a demon.” Hermione’s sharp intake of breath startled him, but she kept her promise, and didn’t interrupt him. “I didn’t know that, then,” he continued, a bit more confidently now. “All I could see was that the house was on fire, and my dad handed Sammy to me and told me to run. After that, we didn’t stay anywhere long. We moved around tons, and it was only later that I found out why. Dad was tracking the demon that killed mom, to make it so he couldn’t hurt anyone else. He went looking for stuff that couldn’t be explained, and kept finding out about more and more weird things that were out there hurting people, but none of them were the demon. So, with Uncle Bobby’s help, Dad and I learned how to hunt them.”

“How to hunt what, exactly?” she asked guardedly.

_Okay, Winchester,_ Dean thought to himself, _it’s now or never._ He swallowed, and took a deep breath. “Monsters,” he said.

To Dean’s utter amazement, she didn’t laugh at him, or call the idea absurd, or accuse him of lying. In fact, Hermione didn’t react at all, but held herself perfectly still, save for the slight rise and fall of her breathing. Her face had that calculating look on it again, eerily like the one her mother had given him on the doorstep of the house, but there was a wariness there that Mrs. Granger hadn’t displayed. Dean started to wonder if she’d had a run-in with a monster already, seen things she couldn’t explain, that she was maybe trying to square things up in her head. She didn’t look like most people he’d seen his dad explaining things to like that, though. Most of them had been pretty noisy in their attempts to explain away the supernatural, fighting like hell to not let themselves believe it was true. Hermione didn’t look disbelieving or even skeptical. It was more like she was weighing the facts in her mind, and the fate of the world hung in the balance.

“So,” she said at last, words measured and even and strangely aloof, “those weren’t dreams—they were memories.”

It wasn’t a question. Dean could do nothing but nod.

“That knife,” she said again. “You’ve killed with that knife.”

Dean’s face drained of all color, but he nodded just the same. “I’m…” he stammered, before taking a steadying breath. “I’m going to quit, though. Hunting. I…I can’t put you in that kind of danger.”

Suddenly Hermione’s expression darkened. “I’m already in that kind of danger,” she said, voice low but intense, “even talking to you.”

For a heart-stopping moment, Dean half-expected her eyes to shift to all black. “What do you mean?” he asked, terrified himself of the answer.

“You’re a Hunter,” she said, and he saw now that she wasn’t perfectly still and detached — she was frozen in place. “That threatens everyone and everything I hold dear.”

“ _What are you saying?_ ” Dean whispered. It was everything he could to keep from reaching for his knife again.

Hermione took a deep breath. “You’re a Hunter,” she said again, a tremor in voice and hand, “and I’m a witch.”

“You’re _what!?_ ” Dean exclaimed as he scrambled to his feet. “You?? You made a deal with...with a demon!?”

“What!? No!” Hermione shouted, on her feet in an instant. “I would never! Summoning demons, that’s...that’s the Dark Arts!”

“Then how do you get your powers, huh?” Dean demanded, stepping towards her. “That’s how witches get their magic, by...by _killing people!_ ”

“I was born with it!” Hermione retorted, glaring up into his face defiantly. “I’ve never killed anyone!” With that, the electric maelstrom returned, whipping up unseen winds around Hermione, hair sparking with anger.

Dean was too stunned to speak, as his thoughts whirled, a three-way shouting match in his head. _Holy shit, my soulmate’s a witch...She’s not that kind of witch, though, Dean!....But she’s A WITCH, Dean!!...That doesn’t mean she’s evil, Dad! She could have hurt Dean already, but she didn’t!... She’s a witch, but I can’t hate her, Dad! If Mom had been a witch, could you have hated her?? What the hell am I supposed to do now??_

“I...God, Hermione,” Dean stuttered, breath coming in painful gasps as the voices of his father and brother reverberated through his mind, countering his every thought. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. A tight, contracting pain spread across his chest as his panic intensified.

His body responded to the crisis in the only way it knew how: fight or flight.

It took all the force of will he had not to give in to the stronger and more practiced of those two reflexes. Summoning his last ounce of strength, he turned on his heel and fled out into the night.

Hermione, trembling with shock and grief and spent anger, collapsed onto the sofa where Dean had been sitting, curled up into a ball and wept.


	13. The Dream Is Still Alive

With his heartbeat thudding in his ears, Dean escaped into the street. The moment Hermione had made her revelation, a niggling worry had begun to worm its way into his conscious thought, and his desire to get away from it had propelled him to his feet and out the door before he could really even register that he was moving. He rushed down the front stair and up the block, although he didn’t get far. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, so he had stopped in one of the many alleyways between houses, just a few doors down.

Outside, he was free of the confines of the building, but his chest still threatened to collapse on him if he didn’t get out of the whirling vortex of his thoughts, and fast. _Why is my soulmate a witch!? How did this happen!?_ Myriad versions of this same theme sped through his brain, until they began to converge on a single point, distilling into repeating iterations of the gut feeling Dean had been desperately trying to ignore.

_It’s because that’s all I deserve._

It came like a punch in the gut. The rock in his stomach became a crushing weight and he staggered, leaning against the wall for support before sliding to the ground. His breath, which had been coming in ragged gasps, incongruously started to even out. He stared unseeing out at the street from his hiding place, half willing Hermione to appear in the gap between the buildings, to explain that he had heard wrong, he’d been hallucinating, anything to deny the reality gnawing in the pit of his stomach--but it was no good. If his soulmate was a monster, it was because he was a monster, too, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

It was in this hopeless state that Dean did see someone--in fact, several someones--crossing the mouth of the alleyway. They were hooded and cloaked, striding purposefully down the street back in the direction he’d come. Something was wrong about them, beyond the weird Renfaire getup, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Just as the last figure passed, Dean realized what was off about them: he couldn’t hear their footsteps. They weren’t moving carefully, but they made absolutely no sound.

For the umpteenth time this evening, Dean’s hunting instincts took over. He didn’t know what they might be, but he hoped to God it wasn’t something with preternatural hearing as he rose slowly to a crouch, crept out of his hiding place, and carefully began to follow them.

No sooner had Dean stepped out from the alley, the lead figure came to a stop. Dean’s heart sank as he saw that the house they were making for was Hermione’s. The tallest of the group removed his hood, to reveal a pale face with stark, aristocratic features, and a long mane of perfectly straight hair that was almost white. When the man pulled a long stick out of the wide sleeve of his coat, Dean’s jaw clenched, and he immediately slipped his silver knife from his back pocket.

* * *

When the front door slammed, Hermione collapsed onto the sofa.

All she had wanted was to come home, finally, to the loving arms of her parents, for even just a few moments of normalcy. The last term had been hell, with Dolores Umbridge chief among the demons tormenting her. An increasingly powerless staff had done their best to protect the students from the so-called Hogwarts High Inquisitor (and what witch or wizard in their right mind would accept that title--did history mean nothing to these people!?) but they had been officially powerless.

Nevertheless, Hermione, Ron and Harry had all been the beneficiaries of their collective efforts: Hermione’s highly engineered conversation with Sybil Trelawney had only been the beginning of the resistance.

After Hermione had spoken with Remus Lupin over the holiday break, it had become apparent that more people than just the headmaster had been made aware of the complications of Harry’s scar. Most of the teachers were quite attuned to him, sending him to the hospital wing at the first wince of pain.

Harry, for his own protection, had then been removed from the active Quidditch roster by none other than Madam Pomfrey, who had insisted that his scar-induced headaches were altitude sickness as a result of prolonged flight in adverse conditions. Harry had been furious, especially when Umbridge had consoled him in that sickeningly sweet way, her voice practically dripping with self-satisfaction. As soon as she’d left the room, however, Madam Pomfrey had given Harry strict instructions to come straight to the hospital wing anytime he felt the slightest tinge of discomfort, no matter where he was or what he was doing--and winked.

After that, the least pain had been enough to get him out of detention, even with Umbridge. Apparently Poppy was the only one of the staff that the wretched ministry toadie had not been able to find a justification for removing, although whether that was due to the Minister for Magic, the Hogwarts board of governors, or Poppy herself, Hermione had no idea. Either way, if Harry so much as looked unwell, off he went to the hospital wing.

With Madam Pomfrey on his side, and an effective buffer between him and Dolores Umbridge, Harry had begun to open up to his two best friends about what was really happening when his scar hurt. The visions he’d seen were terrifying, including one showing his godfather being tortured in some strange underground chamber, but as soon as he reported these things to Hogwarts’ healer, she had given him solid assurance that the matter would be investigated. With the vast majority of the Hogwarts staff so obviously working on his behalf, Harry started to relax a bit, and the strange dreams were soon forgotten.

It had come as a surprise when, during the week they were sitting their OWLs, the news came of a break-in at the Ministry, one that was almost instantly thwarted by what had been, reportedly, nearly every Auror in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, who had somehow all been on hand in the dead of night. Their unexpected presence had been explained as a scheduling mishap--a fortuitous one, as it turned out. Several of the Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban only six months previously had been recaptured, although the worst of the lot still remained at large. A number of Aurors had been killed in the attack, and Kingsley Shacklebolt had suffered severe burns across his cheek and left shoulder, but otherwise the Death Eaters had been prevented from getting further into the Ministry than the atrium. The Fountain of Magical Brethren at its center had been utterly destroyed, Voldemort had been spotted by the Minister for Magic himself, and Fudge had reluctantly announced that You-Know-Who was back, just as Harry had said nearly a year ago.

No one had left any of the trio alone for the remaining days of the term, and after hiding out at Grimmauld Place for a week, Hermione had wanted nothing more than to hug her parents, have a cup of tea, and take a few moments away from the magical world and the war that was most definitely upon them.

Instead, she had come face to face with her soulmate, whom she had warned not to come precisely because of the war, only to find out he was a Hunter. He, of course, had run for the proverbial hills as soon as she’d revealed herself as a witch. She had known, of course, that there was a risk of that, as soon as she’d seen the car in her dreams, that her soulmate was a Muggle and wouldn’t understand, but when he’d turned out to be, not just a Muggle, but an active enemy of magickind, something had broken in her. There had been nothing she could do, although she desperately wanted to follow him, to explain, to show him that magic could be good, and not the devil-worship it was reputed to be, but she had been too slow, too stunned by the rejection to react before Dean was out the door forever.

The touch of a gentle hand on her shoulder caused Hermione to look up, into the concerned eyes of her mother. “What happened?” Helene Granger asked, sliding onto the sofa and wrapping her daughter in a tight hug.

“He’s gone,” Hermione shuddered, voice hoarse from crying.

“Gone?” Helene echoed, pulling back to look her daughter in the face. “Where has he gone?”

“He’s gone,” Hermione said through her tears, which were once again flowing freely down her cheeks. “I told him I was a witch, and he just left.”

Helene sighed, and hugged her daughter again. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, rubbing small circles on Hermione’s back. “He just needs some time to get used to the idea. It took us long enough to understand that magic was real, and we’d seen you perform it since you were a tiny girl.”

“Oh, Mum!” Hermione wailed, unable to contain her despair. “It’s not just that! He’s a Hunter! He kills magical creatures and people like me.”

Helene stiffened, and drew her daughter back once more to look at her. “Did he hurt you? Threaten you?” she demanded.

Hermione, stunned, shook her head. “No!” she said, shocked even at the suggestion. “No, Dean would never…” "I see." Her mother’s arched eyebrow was back, and Hermione blushed a little under the scrutiny.

“So,” Helene said, slowly and deliberately, in the way she had laid out puzzles and problems when Hermione was little, leading her to find the solution, “he is a Hunter, but the idea of him hurting you is unthinkable.”

“I told him I was a witch, and he left,” Hermione said, re-examining her memory of the event. “He didn’t take his knife out of his pocket again, and he could have. He didn’t even reach for it.”

“Conclusion?” Helene prompted.

“His first instinct wasn’t to hurt me, but to run away?” Hermione hazarded.

“Or his training regarding magical people was warring with his regard for you,” her mother supplied. “Did he hesitate before he ran?”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Mum, do you think…?”

“I do,” her mother confirmed. “He was confused and afraid, not of you but of himself. If he’s been trained to violence like you say, then it was likely he saw himself as a threat to you. The only thing he could do to protect you was...”

“...leave,” Hermione finished. Her heart leaped and she sprang into her mother’s embrace, hope rising within her.

Just then her father came in from the front hall, ushering an anxious Tonks back into the sitting room.

“Death Eaters,” the older witch blurted out, all the color leeching out of her previously dark hair. “They’ve taken Dean.”

* * *

Dean came to in utter darkness. Wherever he was, it was inside and probably underground, although it wasn’t damp like a cellar. Hardly daring to move a muscle, he took stock of his surroundings. He was laying on the floor in a heap, probably where one of the robed goons had dumped him. The floor against his cheek was cool like concrete, but smooth as glass. The air had a stale, disused smell, but there was no reek of trash, bodily fluids or even of mouse leavings. It wasn’t a warehouse or anyplace nearly that big--just a small, perfectly clean yet closed-off room.

Deciding to risk some movement, he shifted his weight a little off of the leg he’d been laying on, cursing under his breath at the tingling as that limb regained feeling. Stretching out his other leg, he came to lay on his side and, propping himself up on one elbow, gingerly felt his head for any bumps or bruises. Amazingly, he hadn’t gotten himself concussed, either during the ridiculously short brawl with the Ren-faire freaks or when they’d thrown him in...wherever this was.

He had meant to sneak up on them, at best taking them down one by one, and at least drawing them off of Hermione and her family. As soon as he’d come close enough to get a jump on the first guy in the back, however, he’d suddenly been surrounded by some kind of red light and that was the last thing he remembered.

Whatever had knocked him out hadn’t hit him in the head, and he didn’t feel like he’d been drugged or anything. His dad had told him in unpleasant detail about what that felt like, just after he’d snuck out to that bar last January. Apparently some people got a kick out of drugging kids, or at least that’s what his dad had been worried about. Anyways, he didn’t feel bad right now, beyond the banged up knees he’d gotten, probably from colliding with the floor in here.

Staying quiet, Dean strained his ears for any sound that might give him a clue to where he was. It was absolutely still in this room, without so much as the movement of air or creak of a floorboard to tell him if he was alone or not. He quickly checked his pocket to see if knife or flask had been left in his possession, but he was unsurprised to find them both missing.

Suddenly a click sounded away to his left, and Dean turned his head to see a silhouette outlined in a slowly opening doorway. Whoever it was, their face was completely in shadow, but the light streaming in from behind reflected off a head of palest blond hair. The figure stood stock still for a moment, and Dean felt rather than saw them staring straight at him. With a noise like a slight cough, the figure turned heel and departed, slamming the door home on its way.

Dean didn’t have long to wonder what that meant, as the same figure returned moments later, bearing a long stick like the ones the others had wielded before. “Get up,” came the demand, in a haughty but decidedly young male voice.

Dean did as ordered, and when he had gotten to his feet, he found he stood half a head taller than his jailer. The boy--he looked like he was probably younger than Dean was himself--held the stick out threateningly towards him, jerking his head towards the door to indicate Dean should go out first. Dean recognized at once the look in this kid’s eyes: He was terrified nearly to death, but not of Dean. Someone else was making the decisions here, and this kid was going to catch hell if Dean didn’t come quietly. There was a hint of misgiving there, too, something Dean could use to his advantage if he lucked out. He tucked that thought quietly away and nodded, raising his hands in front of him to show the kid he wasn’t going to try anything funny, and went out of the room ahead of him.

The room opened out onto a hallway that Sammy would probably have said was opulent. If he’d thought the Granger’s house was nice, this place made theirs look like a shack. The walls were covered in intricate designs in various shades of green, and the most ornate motifs glinted silver. They passed large, heavy-looking white doors that were also gilded with silver, and flames glowed behind pale green panes of glass in silver lanterns that were set in recesses along the corridor. He slowed, awestruck at the sight, until he felt something prod him in the ribs. The kid was right behind him, jabbing the stick at him, so Dean got the message and started moving once more.

The hall opened into a room that was even fancier, although only moments before Dean would have doubted that were possible. The room was dominated by an enormous dining room table in wood so dark it looked black, and a crystal chandelier hung above it, suspended from the very high ceiling by a silver chain. Around the table were seated quite a few of the freaks Dean had tried to ambush outside of Hermione’s house, including the white-blond man who had led the attack, who was seated just to the left of the chair at the far end of the table. At the right hand of the center chair stood a woman with wild black hair and an even wilder face. Save for the extreme pallor of their skin, the two of them could not have looked any more different, which only made their twin expressions of triumph even more eerie. The man’s face slid over that outward display of emotion in an instant, settling back into aristocratic boredom, but the look of mad glee in the woman’s face grew ever more mad and gleeful, all the way through to batshit insane. Of the two of them, Dean could tell he had more to fear from her than from him.

“Ah, Draco,” the man said in a slow drawl, “you’ve brought our guest.” The man turned on him with a predatory smile. The more the man looked at Dean, the gladder Dean was that he had kept this dude far away from Hermione. At the moment Dean had that thought, the man raised his eyebrows at him. “So,” he continued, almost lazily, “you are connected with the Granger girl, after all. Bella, dear, it seems we may have the prize we were looking for.”

The woman, Bella, was looking him up and down, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Oh, but he’s a Hunter, Lucius!” she exclaimed, a twisted grin showing her ragged teeth. The blond man, Lucius, looked at Dean with slightly more disdain than before. “See?” Bella continued, thrusting her hands forward, revealing Dean’s silver knife and hip flask for general inspection.

The mood of the other occupants of the table shifted significantly. Most of them had been, for lack of a better description, sitting at attention, like soldiers awaiting orders. With this tidbit of information, however, several of them, especially the older men, glared hatefully at Dean, while one or two shifted uncomfortably in their seats. He felt the boy behind him tense, and if he’d turned around Dean would have bet that the kid would have had a glint of real fear in his eyes.

The man called Lucius maintained a carefully neutral expression, although his grey eyes were on Dean’s own now, hard and unforgiving. “A Hunter?” he mused, as though the topic merely interested him. “And...oh this is interesting, cousin. The mudblood’s soulmate?” The man’s thin lips curled in a sneer. “How very...fitting.” Taking his eyes off Dean, he looked over Dean’s shoulder at the boy behind him. “It seems, Draco, that you will have a task in this evening’s proceedings after all. Do inform the mudblood Granger that we have her soulmate as our guest, and that we request the dubious honour of her presence, in the interests of his... well-being.”

At this pronouncement, Bella’s grin took on an even more wicked gleam. “Let me have him, Lucius,” she demanded, moving past the table more swiftly than Dean would have guessed possible. In an instant she was standing right in front of him. A long, curved fingernail almost like a claw traced the line from his ear down under his chin, and her eyes followed it almost hungrily. “A Hunter could be such...fun.”

Lucius seemingly ignored her. “Draco, take our guest back to his quarters.” At Bella’s audible huff, the blond man relented. “You won’t have to wait long for your fun, cousin. Let us allow our guest to settle in before the...entertainment begins.”

With a real sense of dread growing in his gut, Dean was hustled away by the blond kid Draco, with Bella’s cackles of anticipatory glee following them down the hall as they went.


	14. Sleep to Dream

**Chapter 14**

**Sleep to Dream**

“What happened?” Hermione demanded querulously. She had been crying already this evening, and it was looking like she might start again.

“I was keeping an eye on the house, as instructed,” Tonks answered, anxiety coloring her voice. “I saw Dean run outside and duck in an alley. Then a full squad of Death Eaters came striding out of another alley, three or four houses down. They marched straight down the street and stopped at this house. They were drawing their wands—I think they were going to start attacking the wards—when Dean crept out of the alley after them. I don’t know what possessed him, but he looked like he was going to pick them off, one by one, or die trying. Then the leader turned around and saw him, and they put a Stunner on him and made off with him.”

“Wait,” Krishan said, brow furrowed, “what are Death Eaters?”

“They’re followers of V….of a dark wizard who’s been causing trouble lately,” Hermione explained, quickly changing tactics when Tonks winced as she began to speak Voldemort’s name.

“You mean Dean’s been kidnapped? From our front doorstep?” Her father’s eyes were wide with shock and worry, and his voice quavered with indignation. “What in the world were a bunch of dark wizards doing here?”

“They were looking for her,” Helene said, her mouth a grim line. “They were looking for our daughter, Krishan.”

“Why ever would dark wizards be looking for a schoolgirl?” he returned, dumbfounded.

“Because I’m friends with Harry,” Hermione said, barely above a whisper.

“Because…” Krishan began, but he was interrupted by Tonks.

“Harry’s parents fought against him when he first started attacking people. They were killed when Harry was just a baby,” Tonks rushed. “He tried to kill Harry, too, but he failed. We, well, everyone thought he was dead then. But he didn’t die, and he’s back, and out to get Harry, because he couldn’t kill him the first time.”

Krishan’s mouth opened and closed several times, before he slid down into a chair, falling silent. Helene was standing by Hermione now, hands on her daughter’s shoulders as if in comfort, but her face was hard and impassive. 

Those who didn’t know Helene Granger would have called her cold or callous, but Hermione knew from the tension in her mother’s hands that she was only just containing her incredible defensive rage. She had only seen her mother unleash the full torrent of her emotions one time, after confronting the parent of another child at her old school. A boy in her class had called Hermione a number of names for months on end, but one day he’d gone too far, and called her “a stupid little n⸺”. When confronted with his child’s behavior the next day, the father had taken one look at Helene and dismissed her concerns out-of-hand. She had been on the edge, then, Hermione had later realized, but she had nonetheless given this man another chance. His second response to her was to call Hermione that name, again, to her mother’s face. What followed had cowed the man and sent him scurrying off in his car, and the boy had never spoken to Hermione again.

“What do you intend to do now?” she was asking the older witch, in that calm, professional tone.

Tonks, clearly relieved to be dealing with a non-panicking parent, sighed. “I need to get back to HQ. Hermione should probably come with me, for her safety.”

“And to help find Dean,” Hermione insisted.

“And to help find Dean,” Tonks agreed. “You should probably go get your things.”

“Krishan, would you go help Hermione collect her belongings, please?” Helene said at once, her tone a mere hair’s-breadth from command. 

The tightness in her voice brought Hermione’s father out of his daze, and they had another of those wordless conversations in the brief moment before he said, “Of course. Come on, Hermione,” he said, taking his daughter by the hand to raise her up off the sofa, before settling a comforting arm around her shoulders as she trudged up the stairs to her room.

“Thank you for understanding,” Tonks sighed, nearly flopping down onto the sofa herself with relief. “Order Headquarters really is the safest place for her to be.”

“I imagine it is,” Helene replied, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Now, where will we be going?”

The tips of Tonks’s hair, which had been settling back into a pale shade of pink, suddenly went mousy brown. “You...no offense, Mrs. Granger, but I can’t take you with us. It’s…it’s against regulations, I mean,” she stammered, realizing too late that Hermione’s mother wasn’t calm at all.

“If you can transport her, you can transport all of us,” Helene demurred, unperturbed. “Or at least the two of us, if Krishan wants to stay here, in case Dean escapes on his own and returns to our house.”

“I doubt he could escape without help,” Tonks argued, “but I still can’t take you with me, even if it’s just the two of you. I was going to Apparate Hermione back to HQ, and I don’t even know if…”

“...if it would even work on a Muggle, I see,” Helene finished for her. Tonks’s eyebrows shot up into her spiky hair, and she stammered an affirmative. “Well,” Helene continued, “we’ll just have to take the car.”

“You don’t understand,” Tonks protested, “the headquarters is...well, it’s hidden.”

“I assumed,” Helene replied smoothly. “But surely you know what part of London in which it is located?”

“I…” Tonks began, before she was interrupted again.

“You couldn’t...Apparate, is it?” Helene began, and Tonks nodded affirmation. “You couldn’t Apparate here, because this is a Muggle neighborhood, correct? You aren’t allowed to perform magic where non-magical people can see. And Hermione’s wards prevent you from Apparating inside the house, so we’d have to step outside, onto the street. If you did not use magical means of transportation, then you’d have to have either used Muggle transportation, or you had to walk. Either we are within walking distance of your headquarters, or it would behoove you to use a faster method of transportation. Since Hermione does not drive, and I would assume you do not either, I will take you.”

Tonks was fading by the minute, under Helene’s exacting analysis. “I see where she get it,” she muttered, defeated.

“We do have another advantage in taking the car,” Helene said, more kindly this time. 

“And what’s that?” Tonks sighed tiredly.

“If any wizards are still watching the house, they will expect us to depart from the front door. It is the only obvious exit.” Helene explained. “But the car is in the garage, which opens into the alley behind. And we enter the garage from the house itself.”

Tonks’s eyes widened a bit, and then narrowed again in concentration. “I think,” she said, mulling things over, “I think I will be able to bring you, after all. I’ll have to explain things to the Order, but…”

“You needn’t worry about explaining my presence to the Order,” Helene replied. “I will do that myself.”

* * *

 

In the dim light of the furthest back bedroom of Malfoy Manor, Draco was sitting a vigil. 

His instructions had been exact: watch the prisoner and prevent him from sleeping. He was to be made ready for an interrogation, his father had said, by the time the Death Eaters returned. Food and water were already being denied him, and so now it was Draco’s job to keep him from falling asleep. What purpose that was supposed to serve, he had no idea, but he was to keep him awake at all costs, so long as he didn’t do anything permanently damaging. Depriving Bellatrix of her fun was something no one wanted to risk.

Bellatrix’s wand had been raised, another curse on her lips, when the Dark Mark had burned in all of their arms. The Death Eaters had been summoned to their Dark Lord, so now Draco was left, along with his mother, alone in the house. Narcissa had long since retired, but her son sat staring into the curtained and shuttered room at the young man who had been dragged back in and dropped unceremoniously in a far corner. He had gotten himself to a seated position, and was leaning against the back wall, breathing heavily, head lolled over to one side. He was staring off into the distance, but so far hadn’t acknowledged Draco’s presence at all.

“Who are you?” Draco demanded, for lack of a better thing to say.

The other boy gave a harsh cough, almost a laugh. “So, you do talk,” he drawled in a rough voice, though his accent was clear. He raised his head and propped it against the wall, meeting Draco’s stare. “I thought they might have gotten rid of that for you.”   


Draco’s brow furrowed. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Hell, man,” he said, “they’re wizards, right?” His breathing had taken on a wheeze, but the cough didn’t return. “They can do anything they want, I’m guessing. Bet they could steal your voice right out of your throat.”

“You’re crazy,” Draco accused, but the other guy shook his head.

“Delirious,” he corrected. “ ‘S different.” He leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. “Happens when you’re drunk, too.” He frowned, forehead creasing. “This, though... man. Helluva hangover from whatever that was.”

“The Cruciatus Curse,” Draco answered automatically, surprising himself. His voice dropped down to a nervous whisper, giving voice to one of the myriad unbidden questions that had been lingering in his mind since they’d brought this boy into the manor. “What...what’s it like?”

Again, the other boy swiveled his head to look at Draco straight on. “Why?” he asked, and he seemed sharper, much more focused than before. “Worried they might try that on you?”

It was eerie, Draco considered later, how green that boy’s eyes had been when he’d pinned him with that question. He shouldn’t have been able to even tell their color in the dim light like that, but he had a distinct memory of it, nonetheless. Something in that piercing gaze had seen right through him, known what he was thinking as surely as if he’d been an accomplished Legilimens. But this boy—this Muggle—had no right to know what was in his mind. Involuntarily, Draco had turned away from that intense understanding, unwilling to have anything more to do with the matter.

“I asked you a question,” Draco said instead, hoping the other would just drop the subject.

The prisoner let his head fall back, and began staring at the ceiling. Draco wondered if he was falling asleep, and was about to reach for his wand to cast a  _ Rennervate _ , when he spoke again. 

“Like putting your hand on a bad distributor,” he said eventually. “That hurts like a bear. 

Bobby says it’s as bad as electric shock treatment. Can’t believe they used to do that to people to try to make them  _ not _ crazy.”

Draco wondered briefly if all Muggles made this little sense. Annoyed, he pushed the thought aside, and scowled. “No,” he said, “not that question.  _ Who are you? _ ”

“Oh,” he said, and a look of confusion flitted across his face. “Dean,” he replied, although he sounded a bit unsure about it. “Yeah, I’m Dean.”

“No,” Draco spat, “I know your name. I mean who are you? How are you a hunter? You’re what, sixteen?” he scoffed.

“Seventeen an’ a half,” Dean corrected automatically. “ ‘S practically an adult.”

“That is an adult, you idiot,” Draco said, jealously souring his scorn. “So, what? They let you join the hunters already?”

“Pshhhht,” Dean scoffed, “I grew up in the life.”

“What do you mean, ‘grew up in the life’? What life?” Draco demanded.

“The  _ Hunter’s _ life,” Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes. “M’dad’s one. So I’m one, too.” This revelation was met only with Draco’s stunned silence, so Dean continued. “Demon. Killed my mom when I was, like, almost five. Dad started hunting the bastard down, so I did too.”

Draco’s disbelief finally found its voice. “What, and he just let you?”

Dean’s head, which had been slowly drooping towards his chest, shot unsteadily back up again. “Wha? Yeah...um yeah. Taught me to shoot not long after that, anyway. Nine on my first hunt. Haunting, mean-ass ghost, held a family hostage in their own house, salted and burned that bastard,” Dean rambled, eyes unfocused. “Been a lot since then, yanno?” he said sadly. “Lots of nasty things, but that’s what we do. Hunt monsters, save people. ‘S kinda like...dunno… s’just what we do.” Dean gave a limp, one shouldered shrug. “Did, anyway. Can’t do it anymore.”

“Why?” Draco said involuntarily. He cringed at that, silently cursing himself for being drawn into this Muggle’s obvious drivel. 

Instead of answering, Dean just sighed. Before Draco could say anything further to change the subject, Dean started prattling on again. “Dad’s gonna freaking kill me. Doesn’t even know I’m here. Bobby’s gonna kill me, too. Dad definitely, though. Can’t quit on him. Winchesters don’t quit. This close to getting that yellow-eyed bastard, can’t quit now. Gotta protect Sammy.” 

Draco leaned against the back of his chair, only half-listening to his incoherent babbling. He wondered briefly if the Cruciatus made everyone a gibbering idiot, or just Muggles. He looked over at his charge again, and sat up smartly when one word made sense: _Quit._

“‘Mione, though,” Dean was muttering. “Can’t tell Dad ‘bout her. Gank her, sure as shootin’. Won’t hurt Sammy, but ‘Mione...Nope. Can’t tell him ‘bout that. ‘Bout witchiness. Gotta stop huntin’, can’t let ‘em find her. Can’t be one anymore. ‘S too dangerous. Gotta stop...gotta…” he trailed off, eyes fluttering closed.

“Wait,” Draco said, ready to run over and shake him awake again, although his duty as jailer was the furthest thing from his mind. “Wake up. Merlin, just… Dean!” he nearly shouted. 

When the boy didn’t respond, Draco sprang out of his seat, moving with more alacrity than he would ever have admitted to himself, let alone anyone else. Something had been eating at him, ever since the Dark Lord had begun showing up at Malfoy Manor. Draco had been taught that the Malfoy family was strong, of the highest rank and caliber, a proud, indomitable Pureblood house. His father had assured him that he was the Dark Lord’s lieutenant, his second in command, and at first, he had shown that. Draco had come to see, though, that every time the Dark Lord was in residence himself, his father’s demeanor changed. Gone was the strength of his superiority, as he cringed and cowered in the Dark Lord’s presence. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to question their cause, but a small worry had begun to worm its way into his mind, that perhaps his father’s position wasn’t quite as secure as either of them had believed. Hunters were dangerous, yes, and to be avoided at all costs, but a former Hunter? Someone who could hold his own well enough to survive hunting for several years, especially as young as this young man was...such a contact could prove useful. 

All of this passed through Draco’s mind in the few seconds it took for him to cross the room. It had not yet reached a conscious level of thought, but instead prodded Draco to action purely by instinct. What he needed right now, he felt, was information. “Dean!” Draco said again, grabbing him by the collar of his odd cotton jacket and shaking, hard. “Dean, wake up!” 

The information he sought, however, was not forthcoming. Dean hadn’t simply fallen asleep, but was passed out, cold. Draco began to reach for his wand, but something gave him pause. The feeling that had made him so desperate for information just moments before had suddenly subsided, replaced with something else. At some level, Draco knew that Dean passing out was important, somehow, to his own survival--and that it must be allowed to continue. 

Heedless of his father’s instructions, Draco Malfoy settled in to wait.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [As the music inspires](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12257184) by [Unified Multiversal Theory (nightgigjo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightgigjo/pseuds/Unified%20Multiversal%20Theory)




End file.
